


(Further) Adventures in Engineering: Welcome to the Jungle

by Icarus_Isambard



Series: Adventures in Engineering [2]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Airships, Camaraderie, Dorks in Love, Drama, Engineers, F/M, Humor, Innuendo, Minor Canonical Character(s), Original Chapter-header Songs by Me, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Wilderness, With One Exception, emotional whiplash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-10-13 22:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20590505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus_Isambard/pseuds/Icarus_Isambard
Summary: When the jungle dragon brings down the entire Tyrian fleet, Pact Engineer Von Ffeldy can't catch a break. With his weapons lost, his toolkit scattered through the foliage, and a mordrem vine choking the breath out of him, rescue should come as a relief. But Ffeldy can never tell if the sarcastic sylvari is joking or not, and to what extent the Commander wants to use him to her own ends...Takes place four years after the events in "The Engineer and the Ingénu" (part 1), but you can start here if you like.Oops, It started as Gen, but I teased a romance in Chapter 5 and...I kinda like it. Let's see where this goes, shall we? How can things possibly not go horribly awry?





	1. The Wreck of the Glory of Tyria

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: I really enjoyed writing The Engineer and the Ingenu, but I started it back in 2014 and the game has changed (and expanded) a lot since then. Even Von Ffeldy has matured somewhat (whether the author has is questionable, however). There's so much new material to mine, so I hope you don't mind if I have a little fun. This picks up roughly four years after the end of The Engineer and the Ingenu, but feel free to jump in here if you'd like. As before, all song lyrics are my own, though they may be based on tunes from elsewhere.

The Glory_ is an airship, for Maguuma lands she's bound,_

_There to kill an Elder Dragon who lays waiting on the ground._

_The Commander gives the order to sail into the sun_

_And the Pact fleet it will not return 'til Mordremoth is done._

_._

_Raise your glass to the _Endurance_, and the _Lady Livia_ too,_

_Raise your glass to _Sword of Smodor_, _Whitebear's Pride_, _Scortchrazor II_,_

The Legacy of Owl_, _Cryptonym_ and _Slice of Sky_—_

_We're off to kill some mordrem, and to watch a dragon die._

_._

_~ A recording of this airship shanty was recovered from the strongbox of _The Glory of Tyria_ in the Heart of Maguuma. Many of the voices heard singing perished only minutes later, during Mordremoth's attack._

* * *

Dusk came early to the Heart of Maguuma. Shadows lengthened in the early afternoon and flocks of birds rose flapping from the jungle canopy, confused by the sudden darkness. A curious young eagle ascended on an updraft, wings rippling, to challenge the strange black cloud that blocked out the sun. Her feathers scraped the sides of a wooden gondola that floated over the forest, and she realized this was no cloud.

_Airships_. Hundreds of them.

They scudded silently through the muggy air, all moving together like an encroaching fogbank. The eagle swooped up over the nearest airship, her wingtips skimming the surface of its huge fabric hull. _Thunderbreaker_ was painted on the side in fancy white lettering. She couldn't read, yet she heard voices from the gondola, carried on the wind.

"Pact Engineer Ffeldy!"

"Aye Captain!"

Beyond the glazed gondola window, a female sylvari stood at the helm, her telescope trained on the canopy below. "We're about to drop a kitten-ton of munitions on Mordremoth. Ready the release valve on balloonet one, so we don't launch into the stratosphere when we lose our ballast."

"I'm on it." A youngish human double-timed along the deck, then nimbly climbed to the roof of the gondola and stretched up to fit a wrench on the balloonet valve. "Ready to maintain neutral buoyancy!" he shouted.

The eagle had seen enough. She tucked her wings and dove through the canopy to alert her forest allies.

Pact Engineer Ffeldy braced himself against the warm, invigorating jungle breeze and clutched the valve's handle, ready to throw his entire weight on his wrench the second he felt the gondola buck upwards from the impending ballast dump. In his head, he calculated how much air to release, based on the exact weight of the munitions—a number slightly more accurate than "kitten-ton."

The jungle air smelled of heady exotic flora and rotten fruit, and the humidity made him sweat. Ffeldy's aetherblade skyfarer's coat—captured during the battle for Lion's Arch—flapped around him, and his golden Seraph wing shield shuddered against his back where it was firmly strapped. A pistol with the telltale crystalized finish of asuran design rode the holster on his thigh.

"Steady on! Hold your positions!"

The order came from a gilded greenish Sylvari standing on the deck of the massive airship floating to the left and slightly below _Thunderbreaker_. It was _Glory of Tyria_, flagship of the Pact fleet, and it carried an assortment of VIPs, to include Pact Marshal Trahearne and the re-formed Destiny's Edge. Ffeldy had only met Captain Logan Thackery in person, but he'd glimpsed the others in passing, and easily identified the figures of Zojja, Eir, and Logan on _Glory_'s deck. Trahearne stood at the pointed stern.

"Hold, I say!"

With a whoosh, the hundred-odd airships extended their fin-like airbrakes and coasted gradually to a halt, where they bobbed gently in sky, reminding Ffeldy of sleeping quaggans riding the swells in Frostgorge Sound. He glanced down at the peaceful green canopy. Threads of doubt squeezed his insides. Fear cottoned his mouth, making his tongue feel thick and dry. Was Mordremoth—or some vulnerable part of him—really hiding down there in the forest? Perhaps they were about to unleash an inferno on some unsuspecting Hylek village by accident and he'd have to live with the guilt for the rest of his life.

Too late to turn back now.

"Fire!"

_Thunderbreaker_ lurched upwards. Her lethal payload rocketed downward into the forest canopy. Thin contrails of smoke streaked the sky where, all around Ffeldy, the hundred airships fired in unison at Mordremoth. Hopefully. Ffeldy hauled on the valve with all his strength as air hissed through. He counted: one, two, three…and shut it again as _Thunderbreaker_'s altitude stabilized.

A whooshing sound made him turn. Huge thorny vines shot from the canopy like grappling hooks, ensnaring many of the lower airships around him. _Thunderbreaker_ bucked again in the turbulent air, her tailfins flapped, and she rotated slowly around—too slowly, blast it—until her needle-sharp nosecone pointed directly at the vulnerable fabric hide of _The Glory of Tyria_.

"Not good," Ffeldy murmured as a strange chill blew past his neck, despite the heat. "Against protocol. Bad. Bad!"

_Thunderbreaker's_ nose dipped as she slid into a dive towards the bigger flagship. Ffeldy threw himself off the gondola's roof and rolled to his feet on the tilting deck. He hadn't thought to put his wrench back in his tool belt, and brandished it like a weapon as he charged into the cockpit.

He slipped almost immediately and slid on his knees across the floor, streaking some dark, slippery substance behind him. _Blood_. He glanced over his shoulder. Agenixx, the asuran first mate, slumped in a dark puddle near the door.

_Oh kitten._

Wulfgrr the charr navigator should have been at his map table in the corner, but all Ffeldy could see was a charr-sized hole smashed through the glass. Sylvari Captain Diarmid still stood stood at the controls on the upper deck, her purple foliage tinted a dark, bloody red in the flame-light from the sky battlefield all around them. As she turned her head, clearly expecting him, a sickening green glow filled her eyes. Mordremoth had turned her. She had killed the crew. All but one.

"Captain? You look a bit...stressed. Let me fetch you a mug that rosehip tea you like…" Ffeldy prayed to Dwayna that he'd completely misinterpreted the situation. Through the broken cockpit window, he saw the canvas hull of The Glory of Tyria growing closer at an alarming rate. Captain Diarmid, who until moments ago Feldy had respected as a cheerful, ambitious officer, raised a dagger and hurled it at his head.

Ffeldy threw himself flat on the blood-streaked floor, and the dagger thunked into the wood near his shoulder. He chucked his wrench at her before he knew what he was doing. It bounced off her temple, stunning her long enough for him to strap his wing-shield to his arm and leap onto the platform, using the shield's pressure blast to send her careening against an unbroken frame of the window.

Ffeldy grasped the controls and forced _Thunderbreaker_ into a tight turn away from _The Glory of Tyria_. "Climb, you kitten, climb," he said through gritted teeth, pumping the altitude peddle for all he was worth. He knew Captain Diarmid wasn't finished yet, and doubted the concussion he'd given her had vanquished Mordremoth from her body. Not body—just an empty husk. The Captain Diarmid he'd known was already dead, though her husk groaned, her green eyes flashed open, and she came whirling at him like a dagger tornado.

Ffeldy sidestepped the onslaught and blinded her with an electric blast from his pistol. He hadn't used anything lethal against her. He couldn't kill his captain. Except that he had no choice.

"She's already dead," he whispered to reassure himself. "A husk. A husk inhabited by the enemy." He wasn't entirely sure if that was true.

_Thunderbreaker_ rose above the fray, nose pointed safely at empty air. In his peripheral vision, Ffeldy glimpsed _The Glory's_ gondola splitting in two, engulfed by vines. Then the flagship vanished behind a curtain of flames and smoke. Only the Six could help her now.

Captain Diarmid struck blindly at the air, then recovered enough to thrust a dagger into Ffeldy's shieldblock. He abandoned the controls—let the ship drift where she would—and dashed for the outer deck, hoping Captain Diarmid would chase him, which she did. At some point he'd summon the courage to kill her, but for now he hoped she'd tumble off the precarious gondola edge without much assistance.

As Ffeldy headed for the stern, he saw that all was not well. Another damaged airship had swooped in out of nowhere, dragging dangerous loose ropes that caught on _Thunderbreaker_'s right sail-fin. The ropes sagged as _Thunderbreaker_ coasted past, then grew taught and jerked the craft hard. Ffeldy lost his balance and hit the deck face-first, nearly breaking his nose. Behind him, Captain Diarmid, through some dark dragon power apparently, kept her feet.

"Ahoy, friend!" shouted an incongruously cheerful voice from the other airship. "You're still alive, good man! Well done. Keep up the good work! It's been an entertaining show, but we've got a banquet back at Lion's Arch at eight, and it'll take a good five hours sailing to arrive in a timely manner. Tally ho, charge on, etcetera etcetera."

Ffeldy squinted up at the other airship, simultaneously blocking another attack from his former captain and stunning her with a resonance wave. That was no Pact airship. It was a civilian model from Kryta, an air-yacht for nobility, and a crowd of gaily-dressed voyeurs were lounging on the deck. _Faren's Flyer_.

Balthazar's Balls.

The civilian airship strained against the tangled line, but it was stuck fast to the larger _Thunderbreaker_.

"Say, my good peasant, would you haul yourself up on that fin of yours and cut us free? We seem to be a bit stuck…"

Feldy faced the speaker—it had to be Lord Faren himself—and held his hand up in a rude gesture. Then he fired a few ineffectual darts at Captain Diarmid, dodge-rolled away from her next attack, and hauled himself up onto the gondola roof.

As _Thunderbreaker_'s engineer, he'd climbed over every inch of the aircraft and now clambered up a flimsy rope ladder that draped over the top of her inflatable canvas hull. As much as he yearned to disregard Lord Faren's humiliating order, he knew cutting the line was their only chance. With neither ship able to maneuver, they were slowly sinking towards a burning ridge in the Mordrem-infested jungle.

"Let me dominate you, you cowardly skritt!" the captain hollered behind him. "Submit to Mordremoth."

"I'm good, thanks." Ffeldy climbed on as best he could while she jiggled the ladder from below, trying to dislodge him. His knuckles white, his collar drenched in sweat, Ffeldy clawed his way to the top of _Thunderbreaker_'s inflatable hull. His lungs burned but he couldn't pause to catch his breath, and sprinted across the top, bouncing with every step. _Faren's Flyer_ had wrenched _Thunderbreaker's_ tangled fin off her hinges, though the steel supporting cables still held. Even if he cut her free, he'd never get her home in one piece.

Home. His cozy rented flat in the Salma District of Divinity's Reach, with hooks in the ceiling for hanging his hammock when he wasn't bunking in an airship's hold. The shelf of trinkets he'd collected from his travels. The communal kitchen outside where he cooked butternut squash soup and veggie pizza alongside his neighbors. The pub that had thrown him out for dancing on the tables. His friends from the training academy, scattered to the winds across Tyria. It had been years since he'd seen them. Maybe he never would again…

"It's over, filthy human. I will send you into the Domain of the Lost." Captain Diarmid had arrived at the top of the airship, but she had changed in the moments Ffeldy had lost sight of her. Her violet foliage had stretched and grown so that she appeared taller, her arms more powerful, even her daggers were now the length of swords and appeared fused to her hands. Ffeldy didn't even consider trying to block her attacks now. He could tell by looking at her that she could now kill him with a single blow.

He should have just killed her when he had the chance.

Diarmid raised her massive blades and whirled them around her head, then rushed Ffeldy with a windmill attack.

"Any day now!" shouted Lord Faren from his flyer. "We're going to miss the hors d'oeuvres."

Ffeldy didn't have the breath to curse either of them out, so he took a running jump and landed on the broken fin. If only he'd remembered to bring a knife. He stabbed the rope fibers with a screwdriver, the sharpest tool in his belt, until they at last began to fray and unravel from the tension.

A familiar-sounding whoosh made him wince. Mordremoth's thorny tentacled vines whipped upward from the jungle and smacked _Thunderbreaker_ like a toy. The fin wrenched free just as the line to _Faren's Flyer_ snapped. Ffeldy tumbled head-first down into the void of black smoke.


	2. The Five Hour Fall That Only Lasted Fifteen Seconds, I Swear

_Well the legend lives on, from the Silverwastes on down,_

_Of a jungle called Heart of Maguuma_

_It played host to a dragon many thousand years old_

_—If you’re plant-like, he might just corrupt ya._

_The fleet was the pride of the Tyrian side_

_Sailing from Lion’s Arch full of bluster_

_And thousands of pounds of those heavy-ammo rounds_

_—all the bombs the Commander could muster._

_The Glory of Tyria was bigger than most_

_Of the other airships all around her:_

_Cryptonym, Dragonrender, Endurance were there_

_Vengence Rising and ol’ Thunderbreaker._

_Trahearne on the stern, he raised his Caladbolg_

_With a glint in his eye (almost) frightful._

_Flames rained from the sky, Mordremoth blinked an eye_

_—then the whole [kitten] jungle turned spiteful._

_Huge tentacle vines, green and thorny with spines_

_Flew into the air all around them,_

_Slice of the Sky was the first ship to die_

_In a deathly embrace from the Mordrem._

_The Glory fought on against Mordremoth’s spawn_

_Till a vine hit the deck and it shattered_

_Then off that high ledge tumbled Destiny’s Edge_

_—through the jungle the broken Pact scattered._

_Adventurers bold, hear the story I’ve told_

_And remember this well, I implore you:_

_When you find a strongbox, spare a moment of thoughts_

_For the ghosts of that Pact ship’s doomed aircrew._

_~ Excerpted from “The Wreck of the Glory of Tyria”, Written and composed by charr folk singer Gorrick Leadfoot to commemorate the loss of the Tyrian fleet. She considers this her finest work. ~_

* * *

The jungle was on fire. Billows of black smoke enveloped the trees. All around, the fatally wounded airships sank slowly into the inferno, erupting with great gouts of flame.

Ffeldy fell from _Thunderbreaker_ in a backwards swan-dive, his arms outstretched and coat whipping around him. The wind ripped his Seraph shield from his arm. The golden wing spun upwards away from him, and for a long, strange moment he contemplated the aerodynamic qualities that let it ride air currents while he plummeted like a stone. Then he remembered that he was about to die.

_Thunderbreaker_ disintegrated under the Mordrem vine, and pieces of it fell around him. He felt a tug on his ankle. It had caught in a loop of rope, tethering him to the broken piece of airship fin. The fin jostled against its tether, buffeted by air resistance. An air current caught it for a moment, and the fin—the _wing_—soared upward, yanking his ankle so that now he hung completely upside down. At least he wasn’t falling. Then the air current dwindled and the fin, with Ffeldy attached, plunged downward again while the black smoke engulfed them both, this time for good.

Swirling embers stung his eyes, smoke filled his lungs, leaves whipped his arms—he was falling through the jungle canopy now. He couldn’t see the fin, just felt rope sawing into his ankle--it must still be attached. The ground _must_ be getting closer. How had he not smacked the earth yet? These rainforest trees must be taller than his brain could even comprehend.

Ffeldy contorted himself in midair, trying to reach the rope on his ankle. When he arched his back and threw his arms wide, the rushing air caught in his coat and slowed him slightly, not nearly enough for a soft landing, but enough that the rope slackened and he found himself falling next to the _Thunderbreaker_’s broken side-fin, almost close enough to reach…

The leading edge of the fin was pointed at the ground in a dive. He gritted his teeth against the wind and pulled a large magnet out of his toolbelt. It caught a metal strut with a clink. When he grasped the bowed metal strut with both gloved hands, the fin flared upwards. The fabric webbing caught the wind, slowing his descent with a teeth-shattering jerk. Ffeldy hung from the fin and floated in the smokey breeze like a massive dandelion seed.

“And _that’s_ why I’m a certified, non-card-carrying genius!” Ffeldy shouted triumphantly between smoke-induced coughing fits.

Then his fin-parachute caught fire from a passing branch. He hit the ground with a sickening smack that probably broke a rib or two without killing him outright.

“Never mind, I’m just your garden-variety idiot…”

When a mass of tentacle-vines erupted from the earth to engulf him, he immediately regretted surviving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: The song at the top of this chapter is based on "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot. And I probably listened to it a hundred times on repeat while writing this.


	3. It Gets Worse Here Every Day

_You know where you are?_

_You're in the jungle baby_

_You're gonna die_

_In the jungle, welcome to the jungle_

_Watch it bring you to your shun n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n knees, knees_

_In the jungle, welcome to the jungle_

~ Excerpt from a traditional Itzel Hylek war song, often accompanied by rhythmic drumming, stomping, and ecstatic shrieking

* * *

_Thunderbreaker Captain's Log: 29 Zephyr, 1328 AE_

_Fleet en route to Maguuma. Warm wind from the south. Midnight. I can't sleep from the roaring in my brain. There's a dragon there. I fear him, but I must trust my own strength. I've always considered myself strong. Ambitious. Captain material. I never knew doubt, until now. I can hear the dragon's voice on the wind, and wonder if I should have done the unthinkable—quit my post and returned to the grove. But won't he follow me everywhere? Still, it's so much worse in the Heart of Maguuma._

_All is quiet for now. I put my chief engineer on watch, and the rest of the crew slumber in their hammocks in the hold. They have trusted me with their lives for two years, we are family. I just went on deck pretending to check our defenses. I looked over the rail for a long moment. If I were to jump, could I save my crew? The dragon saw me, and heard me, his roar piercing me from the inside out like I'd swallowed thorns. If anyone is reading this, tell my crew I love them, and I'm sorry. Because I know what tomorrow will bring._

~Log excerpt found in the wrecked airship Thunderbreaker's strongbox, attributed to Captain Diarmid and written on the eve of the attack.

* * *

When things seem hopeless, all an engineer needs is his toolbelt. If only he can reach it. Ffeldy writhed on his back as thin green vines tethered him to the earth. Thin green tendrils looped around his wrists and ankles, cutting into his skin and pinioning his arms at an awkward angle above his head. Fresh new leaves rustled as they opened and seemed to whisper in his ear.

_Submit to Mordremoth…_

Now the vines crept around his chest, his neck, and began to squeeze. Ffeldy managed to rip through some of the softer shoots, but the remaining vines thickened, their stems growing wooden and tough. He'd need a machete now if he stood any chance of survival. He'd lost his weapons in his fall, and the sharpest tool in his belt—which he couldn't reach anyway—was the same screwdriver he'd used to fray the airship line earlier. Hadn't it been in his hand when he fell? He'd probably lost that too. But what about his wrench? No, he'd thrown that at his corrupted captain's head. Anything else? A box of nails had exploded on impact with the ground…he could feel their tiny sharp points under his back, like he lay on an acupuncture mat. Magnet? He glimpsed the Thunderbreaker's ripped-off fin lodged in a tree-branch above him. His magnet was still stuck to the support rod, and well out of reach. That left…a prybar.

Ffeldy inhaled as much oxygen as he could, straining his chest against the constricting vines to afford himself the slightest breathing room. Yes, he could feel the cold shaft of the prybar against his hip, still holstered in his belt. But there was no way he could reach it without cutting through the vines in the first place. It was a conundrum of the highest level.

I'm an engineer, Ffeldy thought. He'd gotten himself into this mess, and so he'd get himself out using the only tool left at his disposal: his brain. So far, all his tool-related attempts at freeing himself involved cutting the vines. What if the vines were responsive to something else, something nonviolent like a logical debate? Or an emotional plea? A song? Reason at all?

Ffeldy calmed his heartrate as best he could. Then he opened his eyes and smiled. "Hello, Mordremoth," he said in his most charming voice. "Umm, I'm not sure I'm clear on what this 'submitting' thing entails. For one, I'm not exactly flora." He'd seen with his own eyes that the sylvari were vulnerable to corruption, but humans…he didn't exactly want to find out first-hand. "I'd be pretty useless as a mere husk—I nearly failed Seraph training, I'm no fighter. But I have other talents probably—"

A vine pulled savagely at his airway, cutting him off.

FFeldy slapped his palms on the ground, trying to tap out. But Mordremoth was no Seraph trainer and didn't have much of a sense of humor, either.

_SUBMIT TO MORDREMOTH! I WILL BREAK YOU!_

So much for diplomacy. Ffeldy couldn't speak, or even breathe through the strangulating vines. Sparks of light crackled before his eyes. His brain couldn't function without oxygen, and with his last few woozy seconds of consciousness he summoned his own message for the jungle dragon via force of will alone.

_Over my lifeless corpse!_

He arched his back and dug his heels into the soft earth. Vines encircled his face, masked his eyes, and blocked out the light.

* * *

"Over here! I've found another one."

Distant, muffled voices swirled through Ffeldy's dim awareness. He heard a repetitive thwacking, and his whole body shuddered.

"I don't understand why we don't just let my servant do it, dear. You might rip your gown on that enormous blade."

"Oh, do shut up, Merula." There was a sawing sound, then a light glowed behind Ffeldy's eyelids. "Look, this one's got the Pact insignia on his lapels."

"He looks perfectly dead to me."

A hand stroked Ffeldy's forehead, then he felt the pressure of a thumb against his aching throat. He tried and failed to open his eyes.

"There's a faint pulse. And see there, his eyelids fluttered. He's on Grenth's doorstep, but I think we can extract him. No, no, we'll be fine, but why don't you go inform the Commander that we've found one of her soldiers? We could use some backup."

Ffeldy felt the soothing tingle of healing magic flow through him and gasped reflexively. The constricting pressure of vines on his ribcage eased for a moment, and human hands grasped his wrists, trying to pull him free. Then the injured vines began their hissing, creeping retaliation. Ffeldy opened his eyes just in time for a thorny vine-branch to whip him in the face.

Ffeldy twisted to the side. His rescuer had hacked the vines away from his arms and face, but the rest of him was still caught in a massive tangle of stems and roots. The healing magic—along with that slap to the face—revived him enough to snap back into full consciousness. He reached for the prybar holstered on his hip and dug his gloved fingers into the mass of writhing vines that still held him fast.

"Stand aside, Baroness," said a deeper, wry voice. "You've done an admirable job with those topiary shears, but it's time to bring out the weed whacker."

Ffeldy's recent encounters with jungle foliage had not been on amiable terms. When a green flurry of leaf-like limbs and thorny weapons whirled toward him, his reaction was more instinctual than reasoned.

"Not today, Mordremoth!"

Ffeldy ripped the prybar free with a burst of shredded stems and swung it at his assailant's head. He might have landed the blow, too, if he'd been on his feet and had one fewer concussion to his skull. Instead he whiffed at thin air while his leafy attacker sidestepped neatly with a chuckle.

"Ah, an incorruptible human. The least interesting kind." A strong grip caught Ffeldy's sleeve and stopped his arm mid-swing. "I wasn't trying to kill you, but if you are going to be this insistent about running yourself through on my blade, I can't guarantee I'll be able to prevent an accident."

"I'm sorry. I…" For a moment, Ffeldy saw Captain Diarmid whirling toward him with her double blades. He shoved the memory firmly back into its mental compartment and nailed on the lid. He blinked, then focused on the sylvari who stood over him. "I'm Pact Engineer Von Ffeldy. And you are…?"

"I am resisting Mordremoth, and doing a slightly better job of it than you. Despite certain...inherent disadvantages."

"Just cut him free already, Canach," said a woman in a mud-spattered satin gown. Baroness Jasmina. "Save the snark for camp. I think we've all had a rough time of it, these past few days."

"Days?" Ffeldy lay still as the sylvari sliced his vine bonds with a single well-aimed sword-stroke. "But the airship crash…the fleet…"

"The fleet was destroyed three days ago." The baroness sent another surge of healing magic through Ffeldy's limbs and helped him to his feet. "The Pact Commander, along with Canach here plus a few other allies, just made contact with us this morning. We've been trying to rescue other survivors. I'm afraid you're the first Pact soldier we've located. All the other survivors in this area have been nobility, passengers on Faren's Flyer."

"Well…that's a story you'll have to tell me when I'm sitting down." Ffeldy's head spun. "Preferably with a strong drink in hand."

With the baroness supporting one shoulder and Canach the other, Ffeldy took one painful step, then another. "Next you'll tell me it's an uphill trudge to camp," he said wryly. "Oh, wait. My gear. It's got to be around here somewhere…"

Ffeldy dropped to his knees to search the overgrown foliage with his bare hands. He pricked his fingers on a handful of nails, and stuffed them back in his toolbelt pouch. His pistol, shield, wrench and screwdriver were nowhere to be found. They could have fallen anywhere across several acres of jungle, or lodged themselves in a tree branch on their way down. He'd probably never see them again.

"Is this yours?" Baroness Jasmina held up a single brass eye-piece on a leather strap. His panscopic monocle.

"Thank the gods, yes." Ffeldy took it and fitted it around his head. The single lens flickered, then lit up his vision with indicators, arrows and targeting crosshairs. His portable heads-up display was still fully functional, at least. Too bad it was mostly useless without weapons.

As a last resort, Ffeldy hopped painfully up and down and failed his arms in the direction of Thunderbreaker's fin piece, which was lodged in the tree above him, but it—along with his magnet, still stuck to the metal rod—was well out of reach.

"Here," said Canach, thrusting a twisted rod of scrap metal into Ffeldy's hands. "You just need to bash things. Let's not worry about fixing them right this second." He waved a hand at the jungle around them. Skeletal airship wreckage formed an almost cathedral-like dome overhead, and small fires still burned pockets of fuel. "Let's get a move on. You were right before, Engineer. It is an uphill hike back the noble's camp. But I can tell the baroness would love to fill you in as we go. The commander will want to interview you as well, I'm sure."

Once again Ffeldy found himself wedged between the pair of them, and he limped forward on unsteady legs.

"So. Faren's Flyer, eh?" said Ffeldy in a not-quite neutral tone. "I _could_ be wrong, but I don't think that's a battleship exactly."

"Oh, well." The baroness pulled her shoulders back and adopted a dignified tone. "We were so proud of the Pact, after you defeated Zhaitan on that airship. Emotions have run high, and we nobles wanted just to cheer on the troops. Lord Faren arranged for our airship to rendezvous with the fleet. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, what else were we going to do, sit at home in Divinity's Reach and twiddle our thumbs?"

"Nothing is stopping you from joining the Pact yourselves, you know," said Ffeldy, a shade more cynical than he'd intended. As a poor Claypool farm lad once upon a time, he'd not had much choice himself. "Though I suppose our choice of onboard cocktails on _Thunderbreaker_ wouldn't have been to your standards. I'm a rubbish bartender."

"There's no call for that, Pact Engineer. Clearly we got what we deserved." She squeezed his shoulder, not unkindly.

"I'm sorry. None of us deserved this."

"Hold on just a moment," said Canach, stopping short so that Ffeldy stumbled against him. "Did you say you were crew on _Thunderbreaker_?" The wheels in his head—or whatever flora-specific machine sylvari had instead of wheels—clearly turned.

Fffeldy found himself backed against the nearest tree trunk. The powerful sylvari gripped him a little too enthusiastically by the lapels. Ffeldy was having difficulty reading Canach, and couldn't tell when he was being sarcastic or vicious. He was certainly fired up about something.

"I'm _Thunderbreaker_'s chief engineer," said Ffeldy. "Or…I was. She was a good ship." His voice faltered. He still couldn't think straight. The weight of raw, unprocessed emotions threatened to swallow him whole like…like a dragon. His eye began to twitch, and Ffeldy held his composure for all he was worth.

"What happened to her captain?" Canach tightened his grip on Ffeldy's collar and leaned in so their noses almost touched.

"Captain Diarmid?" Ffeldy said weakly. A rush of memories came back to him at once, things he didn't want to remember at all. "I—she—I can't—"

"That's quite enough for the moment, Canach," cut in Baroness Jasmina, pushing the two of them apart. "The poor man's gone completely pale. This is no place for interrogations. The Pact Commander will want to hear everything first-hand in camp. Better let him recover until then."

Once again Canach and Jasmina supported Ffeldy on either side. They continued further up the hill, following a plant-free trail that Ffeldy realized was actually a gouge on the side of the ridge, left by a skidding piece of airship wreckage. As they gained altitude, the underbrush cleared and he was able to get a sense of the scope of the battle. Not battle, massacre. It was hard to tell where the jungle ended and the graveyard of dead airships began. The wreckage formed trellises and spires that rose above the trees for as far as he could see, like some apocalyptic cityscape. How many of his fellow Pact members must have perished here?

"I'm sorry if I didn't say it before," Ffeldy said to his two rescuers. "But thank you. Thanks for saving my life." His injured legs failed him then, and he sank to his knees on the rocky outcropping that overlooked a broad swath of burning jungle. Hot tears streaked his cheeks and spattered the bare ground in front of him. He churned them into the gravel with gloved fingers.

Jasmina crouched down next to him and wrapped him in a firm one-armed hug. Canach even placed a thorny hand on his head.

No one spoke. Around them the jungle birds chattered, getting ready to roost for the night.

"Oh, hello! Yoohoo! The camp's up this way, dear! We thought you'd gotten lost."

Baroness Jasmina released Ffeldy, cursing under her breath. "Leave it to Minister Merula to ruin the moment."

Merula bustled down the path. She had pulled her skirts to her knees and knotted the hem of her satin gown into her belt to keep it from snagging on the underbrush.

"Do hurry up! My Gertrude is cooking up some cassava pudding. And we scrounged up some cocoa powder and Ascalonian whiskey from the scattered airship cargo. Hot toddy, anyone? The Commander is very busy, let's not keep her waiting."

Canach turned on his heel. "You were supposed to go _fetch_ the Commander," he said dryly. "Not hostess her to death. This is not Divinity's Reach, in case you hadn't noticed."

Ffeldy pushed himself up on one knee, testing the strength of his legs. Movement caught his eye, and he glanced down the trail in the direction they'd come. Dusk was falling, casing long shadows that flickered and danced in the scattered flames. The underbrush was…moving.

"Uhh…Canach?" Ffeldy nudged the sylvari's leg. "You know I hate assuming all sentient plants are trying to kill me—"

"What of it?" Canach snarled down at him. So could Canach take a joke or not? Or perhaps Ffeldy had just said something massively insulting without realizing.

Ffeldy grimaced and pressed on anyway. "Look down there." He pointed down the hill. "I'll let you do the interpreting for me."

Both Canach and Jasmina looked. Then Canach grasped Ffeldy's arm in both hands and hauled him to his feet.

"Have you still got your iron smasher, engineer? Let's go fix some mordrem, shall we? Though I'd prefer if you stand way over there. I don't trust you to be able to tell a bladderwort from a bromeliad, if you catch my meaning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors note: I should point out that, while I do usually write all my own lyrics, this chapter header comes by way of a massive apology to Guns n Roses. I was going to adapt it but it's already perfect as-is. It won't happen again, I promise.


	4. Enter, Commander

**4 – Enter, Commander**

_I feel like Canach is my bodyguard_

_Made it to the Verdant Brink_

_Saw the place, my heart did sink_

_Navigation is so freakin’ hard_

_Minimap is a useless waste_

_Where the hell are these Mast’ries placed, yeah_

_How do I reach the canopy?_

_Guess I’ll glide down from up high_

_Miss the updraft then I’ll die_

_I’m a completionist lady_

_I’ll do your fetch quest, baby_

_And I’ll do it on my own time, yeah_

_I have it planned_

_I’ll be your Commander_

_‘Till Dragonstand_

_‘Cross maps I’ll meander_

_Right now I command you to /dance_

_I’ll be your Commander _

_[repeats]_

~ Tribute song composed in honor of Commander Atalanta Fiero, written and performed by Scout Acan

* * *

Ffeldy could barely even stand without assistance. He’d lost all his weapons in the crash save for a prybar and a handful of nails, if they even counted. Now he clutched the scrap-iron club Canach had given him and prayed to Dwayna for strength—though she was more of a healer than a fighter. His legs felt a bit stronger after he uttered her prayer. Perhaps she heard him…or maybe he’d just imagined it.

“Try Balthazar.” Jasmina flashed him a wicked grin as she brandished her pistols. “He has the biggest ba—”

“Dwayna and I have an understanding,” said Ffeldy quickly, not entirely sure if this was true. He admired Dwayna’s tolerance for hopeless cases, but wouldn’t blame her if the admiration wasn’t mutual, exactly.

Three shadowy figures advanced toward them up the hill. Canach must have identified them as mordrem for he advanced with his crescent moon shield up, sword at the ready.

Ffeldy squinted at the sylvari-like figures. Their limbs appeared warped, their skin thick and bark-like. One of them wore Pact armor, and one a skyfarer’s jacket like his own. His stomach dropped.

“Canach, they’re dressed like allies. Are you sure—”

“What did I _just_ tell you, Engineer? You can trust me as your ‘Maguuma botanist’s field-guide’. Don’t overthink it.”

“But I always overthink. It’s in the job description.”

Jasmina groaned. “I’m going to send the pair of you into separate corners in a second.”

The three mordrem raised their weapons and charged.

Canach leapt forward to engage the mordrem with his sword—rather too cavalierly, Ffeldy thought. If Captain Diarmid, one of the strongest and most courageous silvari he’d ever known, could be turned by Mordremoth, how could this swaggering thistle assume immunity? Ffeldy vowed to keep an eye on him, and set the red target image to follow Canach on his monocle’s heads-up display, just in case.

“You are definitely overthinking.” Jasmina had noticed him adjusting the eye-piece settings. She raised an eyebrow at him as she lunged past, her pistols at the ready.

“Someone’s got to.” His eyes followed her pistols. “Umm…might I please borrow just one of those—”

“They were decorative ornaments aboard the Flyer, I think only one of them actually works. But Imagine a gentleman _asking_ for a lady’s armaments. Such cheek!”

Canach crossed blades with the armored mordrem, while Jasmina dodged the former skyfarer’s riposte. That left Ffeldy exchanging a long stare with the third mordrem, a massive troll-shaped tree-creature wielding a club the size of an average human. Because of course.

“Dwayna? Sorry to bother. Mind putting in a good word to Grenth for me?” He gave the iron bar an experimental swing.

The mordrem’s club slammed into the ground near Ffeldy’s feet, knocking him backwards. His makeshift scrap weapon went spinning out of his hands and landed in the underbrush. He’d have given his right arm for a ranged weapon just then. Anything but that idiotic bit of scrap. His pulse hammered in his throat as he pushed himself up, just in time for the mordrem to take another swing.

“Just to clarify,” Ffeldy shouted at his allies as he dodged and retreated at full speed from the massive club. “Melee is no strength of mine.”

Canach was still slashing at his opponent. So far, so good—he hadn’t turned, yet. “I didn’t actually think the engineer would go full Logan on us. Did you, baroness?”

Ffeldy kited the creature for all he was worth. “I’m just going to improvise for a minute. Don’t mind me.” He’d noticed several sealed crates scattered all around on the ground, probably airship cargo. He sprinted toward the nearest one, putting some distance between himself and the mordrem chasing him down. Skidding to a stop, he fumbled for prybar in his belt and pulled it out, hands shaking.

_Please please please be full of grenades_.

He jimmied the lid open. Inside he found a jumble of airship maintenance materials: spare steel cogs, bottles of oil, rags and leather gloves.

“Right, never mind. Next!”

Ffeldy ducked another swing at his head. He dashed off in the direction of another crate. Meanwhile his lumbering pursuer struggled to keep him in sight. Adrenaline from the fight had overpowered the pain of his injuries at first, but now he regretted the vigorous exercise. His clutched the stitch in his side with one hand and swung the prybar with the other. A single whack, and the crate lid popped to reveal an assortment of fancy clothes.

“Third time’s the charm.” Ffeldy pivoted on his heel headed for crate number three. He was limping now, his endurance spent. The mordrem’s next attack struck him between the shoulders and slammed him face-first into the ground.

“At least you’ve managed to keep it occupied,” said Canach, the red targeting crosshairs still superimposed over his head on Ffeldy’s display. “I’m on my way.” The sylvari dispatched his own mordrem with a vigorous swordthrust. “Though I see you’ve unaccountably lost your weapon. Bashing Mordremoth’s minions in the face is simple enough. I… really don’t understand you.”

Ffeldy low-crawled on his elbows toward the third crate, prybar clutched in his fists. When he reached it, he sat up on his knees and gave the lid a good thwack.

The crate opened with a hiss of mechanical hinges. Inside, he found a jumble of familiar-looking spherical devices—grenades? His heart rose expectantly in his throat, then sank as he realized this was just the box of spare airship gyroscopes, possibly from Thunderbreaker’s hold. There was also a small packet of signal flares.

“Come on, you,” he grumbled at himself. “Now’s the time to overthink.” In his peripheral vision he saw the mordrem’s shadow advancing. “You’ve got three seconds, tops.”

He shoved the flares and a handful of gyroscopes into his coat pockets. Then grabbed two more in each hand and set their internal rotating discs spinning.

Canach and Jasmina had each killed their (admittedly smaller) mordrem opponents and now hit the big club-wielder with everything they had, though their efforts had little noticeable effect.

Ffeldy dashed past with his hands full. “Keep up the good work, you two. Look at all that kinetic energy. Well struck, Canach! Right in the face! You took a full percentage point off its health just then—”

“YOU’RE NEXT, ENGINEER!” bellowed Canach as he hacked and slashed. Mordrem wood chips scattered the grass. “unless you START. BASHING!”

“All in good time.” Ffeldy felt strangely calm, now that he had a plan. He slid to a stop in front of the first airship crate containing the repair materials and dumped everything on the ground. Sure enough, a small toolkit was hidden among the cogs and bottles of airship oil. He knelt in the dirt, tossed his gloves aside, picked up a screwdriver and wrench, and started tinkering.

“By the Pale Tree’s thorny backside, get off your knees and fight! Prayers to your half-dozen human idols are not going to bring down a fireball, much appreciated as that may be.” Canach turned his head to Ffeldy as he spoke, opening himself up to an attack of opportunity. The mordrem’s bludgeoner caught the sylvari and swept him aside.

“I don’t suppose anyone has a light?” said Ffeldy, still feeling absurdly calm. The jerry-rigged mechanism in his hand popped its scrap-metal fins when he set the gyro spinning. He struck his wrench on a stone, and the spark lit the oil-soaked rag fuse. “Here, let’s try an assisted launch.” Ffeldy hurled the little mechanism into the air. It stabilized itself momentarily with a whir of little gears, then the attached flare caught fire, propelling it toward the mordrem with a loud hiss.

“Incoming! Five, four, three, two…”

Canach and Jasmina exchanged a glance, then took several large steps backward.

“ONE!”

The little mechanism bounced harmlessly against the mordrem’s hard woody shell. The mordrem paused, stared at it in confusion, then swung its weapon back for a crochet-smash that would send the little gyro-thing into the stratosphere.

BOOM.

A flash momentarily blinded them. A circle of flames erupted around the mordrem. When the smoke cleared, only hunks of charred wood remained, along with the scorched metal bludgeoner. Now that the mordrem’s weapon wasn’t swinging at his head, Ffeldy realized it wasn’t just any hunk of scrap, it was a large pipe wrench like the one he’d used to work Thunderbreaker’s release valves.

“I’ve got some medic training,” said Ffeldy, keeping a straight face with much effort. “Stand aside, I’ll check it’s pulse.”

Baroness Jasmina strode toward him, cracking her knuckles. “You are turning out to be such a Hound.”

Ffeldy winced, but she didn’t clock him as expected. Instead she ruffled his hair.

“One of the Balthazar variety. Well done.”

His cheeks grew uncomfortably warm, and he glanced down at his grimy hands. “Err…thanks.”

Canach looked far less amused, though Ffeldy honestly couldn’t read the expression on his bristly face with much accuracy. He had difficulty parsing sylvari emotions in general. Their body language occurred on an entirely different plane from human experience. Nonetheless, Ffeldy withered under his apparent glare.

“I fail to understand your antipathy for close-combat.” Canach wiped his sword with a handful of leaves and sheathed it. “It’s a good thing _we_ were able to cover you.” He gestured toward Jasmina. “To keep Spiny McSpineface over here from mashing you like cooked cassava root while you ran around like a complete fool.”

“Yes, well…” Ffeldy grimaced and jabbed an elbow toward the charred mordrem remains. “It all worked out in the end, right?”

“Purely by coincidence, yes. You can’t expect to replicate these results, especially without us—your _very_ generous team—backing you up. And what if we had needed your support before you put the finishing touches on your peculiar little clockwork orange?”

“I’ll admit the device could use some adjustments—the mobility could be improved with some internal self-navigation and hovering properties—but considering that prototype was the work of a few short minutes, plus lots of duct tape, I’m happy with how—"

Canach picked up the dead mordrem’s pipe wrench weapon and thrust it into Ffeldy’s hands. “You need to learn close combat if you are going to survive in the jungle. Even if I have to train you myself. Maybe you’ll find this weapon slightly more to your liking.”

Ffeldy hefted the wrench and gave it an experimental swing. “It does have nice balance.”

“Hold on just a second, friend.” Canach peered closely into Ffeldy’s face.

“What?” Ffeldy analyzed the sylvari’s face and tone of voice for any clue as how to interpret this. He leaned back uncomfortably.

Canach tapped the lens of Ffeldy’s panasopic monocle. “Are you _targeting_ me?”

That time Canach’s ire was unmistakable. Ffeldy’s hand flew to his eyepiece. With a click, he removed the red crosshairs setting on his heads-up-display.

“No! I mean, not anymore.”

“If that clockwork bomb of yours had been properly calibrated, you might have killed _me_ instead of the mordrem. Did that even cross your overthinking, distracted, squishy human brain?”

Whatever words Ffeldy intended to mumble as an excuse got lost on the way to his mouth. He opened his jaw and shut it again. Canach made an excellent point, though Ffeldy hadn’t called an active target. However, it would have been an easy slip, especially since auto-targeting didn’t always focus on the intended opponent. He should probably fix that.

“By Lyssa’s knickers,” murmured Jasmina. “I’ve never seen Canach that pissed.”

“I’m so sorry.” Ffeldy removed the eyepiece, stuffed it into his pocket, and wiped a sleeve across his damp forehead. He couldn’t meet the sylvari’s eyes. “I’ve just had one too many not-fun experiences with Mordremoth’s corruption—”

“No.” Canach put a hand on Feldy’s shoulder, forcing eye contact. Thorns on his hands pierced the fabric of Ffeldy’s coat and pricked his skin. “No. Listen. I’m not going to ‘turn’. However, I need you to trust me. Just as I, too stupidly perhaps, have trusted you.”

Ffeldy let out a slow, exhausted breath. He wondered if Captain Diarmid had been just as certain about her ability to hold off the dragon’s corruption. She must have, since she’d willingly piloted the airship deep into the Heart of Maguuma.

“But I don’t know _how_ to trust you. You say you won’t turn. How can I tell you’re right, when others have been wrong?”

“Trust is not rooted in logic.” Canach gave a casual shrug. “The right decision is not always the smart decision. ‘Right’ choices can be astoundingly idiotic. Ask, say, your neighborhood criminal mastermind. I guarantee they’d agree with that statement. Stop listening to your head. What do your emotions tell you?”

Ffeldy gave Canach a long, sober look. He was starting to suspect that this sylvari was a Frostgorge iceberg. The tip visible above the surface failed to suggest vast submerged mysteries. All he could see was the shadow in the water.

“That I should trust you. And I do.” Ffeldy held out a bare hand, intending to shake on it, then remembered Canach’s thorns and reached for the gloves tucked in his belt.”

“No, no,” said Canach with a dry chuckle. “We’ll shake without gloves, per the human custom. I insist.” He folded both his spiny hands—he’d clearly made them more prickly than usual—around one of Ffeldy’s and gave it a good long squeeze.

“I deserved that,” Ffeldy hissed through his teeth, enduring the longest, heartiest handshake of his life. “You’re on, my friend. I’m so glad we could come to this agreement—ow.”

Canach released him. “You are officially the most exasperating engineer I’ve had the displeasure to encounter.”

Ffledy grinned sheepishly. “But you couldn’t possibly have met _that_ many of us.”

The corner of Canach’s mouth quirked up into—was it?—a brief smile. “Good point. Well, then. I’m looking forward to our sparring lessons. I think I’m going to find them most cathartic.”

Jasmina stepped forward. “Now that you two have kissed and made up, let’s get back to camp. Did anyone see what happened to Minister Merula? I lost track of her during the action.”

“Right here, dear, we’re coming.” Merula trotted down the slope, flanked by a small contingent of servants and nobles armed with makeshift weapons salvaged from the wrecks. “I just dashed back to camp. My Getrude has brought her rifle, and look! I’ve brought the Commander. She’s been such a delightful guest. She must have dispatched half a dozen giant beetles that were wandering about our camp.”

Ffeldy had stooped to gather airship tools and gyros into a makeshift sack. He looked up, and his pulse quickened. There stood Atalanta Fiero, former Hero of Shaemoor, now Pact Commander. Stay cool, he told himself. He pulled at his collar, which suddenly felt far too tight. She wore a gauzy, elaborate gown in fiery colors, and circlet with a flaming jewel around her head. Her black hair was braided into a sophisticated loop around her head, and her dark bronze skin glowed in the dusky jungle light. Gem-encrusted dagger and horn adorned her belt. She’d clearly been busy since he’d last seen her. And successful, too.

Atalanta hadn’t recognized him, but he hardly expected her to. Ffeldy thumped his chest in salute. Canach did too. Baroness Jasmina put a hand on Atalanta’s elbow and soon they giggled like old friends. Of course they were old friends. Atalanta would have grown up among the nobility that had crashed in Faren’s Flyer. It made perfect sense for her to seek them out in the jungle, come to think of it.

“…wait,” Atalanta was saying. “Did you say Ffeldy? _Von_ Ffeldy?” She glanced around the clearing. “He’s here? Are you sure?”

Ffeldy coughed.

Atalanta’s eyes swiveled to him. She stepped toward him with a quizzical expression while he held his salute and did his best not to break into an idiotic smile. “Ffeldy? You are…” she gently smoothed his skyfarer’s jacket and straightened his twisted Pact badge. “…you look very different since I last saw you. You have, dare I say, matured.”

Ffeldy knew this was true because of how successfully he held a straight, serious face while she spoke.

“You’ve even got a bit of scruff on your face and oh, look how it highlights those cheekbones. No longer the bare-cheeked lad, are you? And your shoulders have certainly filled out nicely. How long has it been? Two years? Three? Come, let’s walk back to camp while you fill me in.” She linked her elbow in his.

Ffeldy felt like a prize bull at a fair. His face began to burn, and he hoped she didn’t notice in the fading light. Had she just publicly admitted that she found him…attractive?

“Well, Commander,” he said, keeping his voice deep and serious. He remained painfully aware that Canach, Jasmina and half the passengers from Faren’s Flyer looked on, “You and I were both aboard _The Glory of Tyria_ during the attack on Zhaitan. So…three years ago. You were aiming the MEGA-LIT cannon and I was in the airship rigging somewhere, adjusting pressure valves so we could keep a stable altitude. You’ve always been an excellent shot.”

“Why thank you, that’s very kind.” Atalanta’s voice had a pleasant, cheerful lilt. Less…_snobbish_ than he remembered. “And you’ve clearly taken to the airship life. Are you a captain now?”

“Chief engineer. Or…I was. On _Thunderbreaker_. And I saw _Glory_—” His voice cracked. “It’s a long story that I’m not particularly excited to revisit. Canach here is going to insist that I give an intelligence debrief, so I will. But I’ll have to be good and drunk first if you don’t mind, Commander.”

“I understand.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder up the path. He’d grown a few inches since they’d last met, and now he felt strangely tall walking at her side. The bundle of tools and spare parts was heavy on his back, almost as heavy as the massive pipe wrench he’d slung over one shoulder. Tomorrow he’d probably wake with muscles so sore he’d barely be able to move. Oh well. Something to worry about later.

The sun had set over the jungle by the time they arrived in camp. Servants had set up a cluster of tents, and a cheerful-looking bonfire cast a warm, welcoming orange light around the clearing.

“I’ll just set my pack here. I can sleep on the ground. It was kind enough to me these last few nights, heh.”

Atalanta pulled him by the hand. “Leave your gear and come sit by me.” She patted the grass next to her. “Getrude, fill a glass for my engineer friend, straight Ascalon whiskey. Yes, perfect.” Atalanta clinked his glass with her own. “I’m glad to see you safe, considering the circumstances. Lyssa be praised.”

“Glory to Dwayna.”

They both drank, but out of the corner of his eye Ffeldy noticed Baroness Jasmina sitting alone with her own drink, watching. He couldn’t tell if she looked more jealous of Atalanta…or him.

Ffeldy knew how it felt to get left out of things, so he waved her over. On the other side of the bonfire, a trio of servants with instruments struck up a jaunty tune.

“You’ll have to excuse Minister Merula for the entertainment,” said Jasmina, shaking her head as she settled next to them on her knees. “It probably seems a bit vulgar, considering the tragedy all around us. But I think she’s got the right idea, trying to lift our spirits. Commander, I’m hoping to take a group deeper into the Jungle tomorrow. We still haven’t found Lord Faren and many of the others. You remember the man. He’s like a bad copper coin, and I’m convinced he’ll turn up somewhere nearby. I reckon he’s nigh-on unkillable.”

Atalanta laughed. “I’ll drink to that. And I bet you’re right.” She created a small fireball with a snap of her fingers and let it twirl around her fingers.

“Would you care to accompany us, Atty?” asked Jasmina hopefully. “It’ll be like the old days in Divinity’s Reach. When we used to swing our mothers’ swords around in alleys, fighting off imaginary ghosts.” She glanced at Ffeldy. “What about you? Did you play Seraph and bandits where you were a lad?”

“Not him,” cut in Atalanta before Ffeldy could think of a tactful answer. She sounded a bit tipsy already. “When I first met him, he’d been arrested for avoiding the Seraph draft. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Ffeldy bristled at her words and though she leaned toward him in a friendly manner he withdrew slightly. “That’s not really anyone else’s business, is it Commander? I’m a life member of the Seraph now. So. It all…worked out, you might say.” The words came out with a bitter taste. The whole Seraph saga wasn’t something he cared to discuss in front of others. Time to change the subject. “How’s Captain Thackeray by the way?” he asked Atalanta, remembering how giddy she’d always been around him. “I hear you two are still fast friends.”

Atalanta stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “I thought you were _there_.” The drink shook in her hands.

“What?”

“_The Glory of Tyria_ went down. And so did Destiny’s Edge. That’s why I’m here, to search for them.”

Ffeldy mentally slapped himself. Outwardly, he settled for an embarrassed face-palm instead. “Oh. Gods, I’m sorry. I was there, I saw—I’ve been trying not to think about it.” He stood quickly. “Can I fetch anyone a refill?”

The ladies shook their heads so he retreated with a nod. He spun on his heel and almost ran smack into Canach. The sylvari stood just outside the bonfire’s ring of light, drink in hand. He raised it in Ffeldy’s direction.

“Is it true what the Commander said? About your arrest.”

“I was very young, and the archaic Krytan laws weren’t particularly flexible.” The bitter taste in Ffeldy’s mouth returned, but he found he didn’t mind telling Canach. Maybe because he couldn’t read the usual emotions of human scorn on Canach’s face. “I had to join the Seraph as punishment, but I failed the training and should have died. Say what you will about Logan, he stood up for me. He’s also incredibly good at finding legal loopholes.”

“And you’re still serving your sentence now?”

“A lifetime of Seraph duty. Yes. Why?”

Canach laughed. “I just realized we have more in common than I’d initially assumed, engineer.”

“Oh?”

“A toast to the Pale Tree.” Canach clinked Ffeldy’s empty cup with his own. “Get a few more of those in you, and I promise to extract the _Thunderbreaker_ story from you as painlessly as possible.” He squeezed Ffeldy’s shoulder, but this time without the thorns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: This chapter’s original song is brought to you by way of Kelly Rowland’s “Commander” and seemed an excellent fit for Atalanta Fiero. Also fun to dance to. Ask me how I know.


	5. Spark to Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author’s note: So, I’ll just preface this with the disclaimer that writing this chapter has been my happy little corner of ridiculous during a rather wretched week. So, there’s some fluffy lime content ahead—consider yourself warned. (And yes, I’m doing better now, thanks!) Today’s epigraph is brought to you by “Wrecking Ball”, best sung along to in a dramatic manner (but how would I know?) It’s my second attempt after the first effort combusted on the launchpad yesterday (probably for the best). We shall, uh, get back to our regularly scheduled adventures next week.]

**5 – Spark to Flame**

_I fell from high up in the sky_

_And now, Commander I’m earthbound_

_Sylvari turned, the jungle burned_

_Airships are ashes on the ground_

_Don’t you ever say I just walked away_

_I’m here fighting with you_

_I would not dismiss just one single kiss_

_If only you wanted to…_

_This song just got too personal_

_Lucky this paper’s burnable_

_When I try to get my feelings out_

_It’s clear I have—no skill with words_

_Yeah, I’m tearing this up_

_Your captive chained, my hands restrained_

_I was your bounty years ago_

_Oh hell, I fell under your spell_

_But thank the Six that you don’t know_

_You run hot and cold, attunements manifold_

_It’s madness, falling for you_

_And now here I stand, under your command_

_Dwayna, what do I do?_

_I’m a pawn in this Maguuma war_

_But I’ll smash those mordrem to the floor_

_Crush this paper to a crumpled ball_

_Awkward feelings, I’ll deny them all_

_This song just got too personal_

_Lucky this paper’s burnable_

_When I try to get my feelings out_

_It’s clear I have—no skill with words_

_Yeah, and your—your heart is thorns_

_ ~ anonymous lyrics reassembled from crumpled scraps of charred graph-paper inexplicably tucked between the pages of Commander Atalanta Fiero’s personal journal, donated to Special Collections at the Durmand Priory in 1330 AE_

* * *

Ffeldy made his best effort to socialize in camp. The Commander introduced him to her many allies around the bonfire, but he’d never been good at remembering names even while sober. They all went by in a blur. He tried to strike up a conversation with a big Norn, but quickly discovered they had few mutual interests beyond disagreeing over the quality of the Ascalonian whiskey. Ffeldy extracted himself from that interminable discussion and introduced himself to Kasmeer Meade and Marjory Delaqua. He even stammered a few awkward condolences for Marjory’s sister Belinda (“I err…met her at Fort Salma”), before the pair excused themselves to hit the dancefloor. It was for the best. Standing within an arm’s length of a necromancer could trigger excruciating headaches followed by uncontrollable fear-chaining. That was the last sort of humiliation he needed tonight.

The evening hit rock-bottom when Canach finally cornered him and forced out the full _Thunderbreaker_ story, focusing on the horrible particulars of Captain Diarmid’s corruption. Ffeldy rarely felt at home as the center of attention, and now all eyes were on him—the Commander, her friends, even the nobles and their servants stopped their dancing and left off in their conversations to listen.

“And Diarmid. Did you see her die?”

“I…no. Last I saw her, she was standing on top of _Thunderbreaker_. A vine came up, I fell, or maybe it was the other way around. The airship went down. I doubt she survived.”

“But _you_ did.”

When Ffeldy had answered every possible question to the best of his ability, Canach finally permitted him to leave. Ffeldy evaded the crowd with a splash of elixir S—he didn’t have much left, just a small vial that had survived in his pocket, but social situations seemed a higher priority than battle at that moment. He stealthily collected his gear and climbed far up the slope behind the busy bonfire area until he found a peaceful ledge that, he realized, would make an excellent defensive position for the camp.

He distracted himself by getting to work. First he jotted up a plan in his notebook, scribbled a few diagrams, and crumpled some botched pages of verse that he tore into tiny bits and tossed into the wind. From the wreckage all around, he salvaged machine parts and constructed a standard defensive thumper turret. The night-vision setting on his panscopic monocle made it possible to work in the dark.

As Ffledy started the final calibration procedure for his turret, a figure left the bonfire down at camp and made its way up the hill toward him, glowing green on his night-vision display. When he realized who it was, his mouth went dry.

“There you are, Von. When you disappeared, I worried we’d put you through too much, too soon. I feel responsible for you, somehow. And yet I see you’ve been most industrious.” Atalanta Fiero spun a flame on her fingers, creating a small, candle-like glow. “I was just suggesting to Minister Merula that she should see about installing defenses here tomorrow, but you’re several steps ahead of me. I admire your initiative.”

Ffeldy quickly shut down his night-vision setting before the heat and light from Atalanta’s fiery dress could damage the display. Her use of his first name—no one ever used his first name—struck him as odd. He stood up straight and saluted.

“Thanks, Commander. And sorry for leaving the party so early. It was…overwhelming. And you do have a lot of friends.”

“Like you, I tend to get exhausted by it all.” She spread out her skirts and sat on the ground, demurely tucking the flaming fabric around her knees. “Everyone calling me ‘Commander’ like I’m just some figurehead without an identity of my own. I outrank almost everyone. It’s awkward when you’re just trying to make friends, getting treated with outsized respect. Yet I’m always at everyone’s beck and call for everything. Literally…everything.” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m in a very fortunate position and have no cause to complain.”

Ffeldy had turned back to his scrap turret to fiddle with the calibration settings. “Complain away, Commander. That that does sound annoying, to say the least.”

Atalanta laughed. “Did you even hear what I just said? You can call me Atty, really. I won’t bite your head off. The odds are in your favor, anyway. What’s this?” She picked up his notebook, which he’d left in grass nearby.

“Oh, um, equations?” It took all Ffeldy’s willpower not to pull the book out of her hand. “That’s a map of the camp with the highpoints and visibility lines sketched in, and that page shows the parts I needed for the turret.” Hearing the anxious tinge to his own voice, he grimaced.

“Color me disappointed, Von. I was certain I’d find a love ode to Canach in here somewhere. Unless you tore it out already. Look at these mysterious missing pages—”

“I—need to reference that for a second. Sorry Com—Atty.” Ffeldy extracted the book from her reluctant hands and pretended to search his notes for some necessary, elusive equation. Then he crouched down and pretended to tighten a few bolts on the turret.

Atalanta placed a hand on his arm. “Will you ever finish with that…contraption? I think perhaps you’re pretending to ignore me. This is exactly what I mean. The ‘Commander’ makes everyone nervous. Please, I’m just a regular person. Like you.”

Ffeldy could feel the chill of loneliness in her words. He knew the feeling well.

He pocketed his tools and knelt on the ground beside her. “I’m listening, I swear. Can I, uh, help you with anything?”

Her hand, radiating warmth, moved to his knee. “Yes, actually. You see, I’m in dire need of an engineer to…help me set up my tent.” The flames on her dress subsided, then her entire body crackled with a burst of purple electricity. “Reap the whirlwind.” Her whispered words rushed around him on a sudden breeze that ruffled his hair.

A prickling sensation crept up Ffeldy’s arms when she pulled him closer. “Uhoh—”

She kissed him, and the delicious buzz of static electricity filled his mouth. For a few seconds, he couldn’t move—perhaps Atty’s electrical attunement hijacked his muscle synapses. She traced his jawline with her fingers and raked a hand through his hair while a pleasant current pulsed across his skin.

Ffeldy clasped her soft neck and kissed her back, his chest heaving as if she’d stolen the air from his lungs. Maybe she had.

“Is that the best you can do, engineer?” she murmured in his ear when he came up for air. “I watched you from the ridge when you dispatched that mordrem earlier. Dazzle me with your…creativity.”

“Aye aye, _Commander_.” Ffeldy pushed off his knees and stood, lifting Atalanta to her feet while she clung to his neck. She’d switched attunements again. Her skin felt cool and slick against him. Warm steam geysered around her, fogging his single lens.

She pushed the brass eyepiece up onto his forehead, out of the way. “I’m liking that wicked grin of yours,” she said, and kissed him again, hard.

Ffeldy pivoted on his heel, sending the curtain of steam swirling. Atalanta’s skirt swished like the curl of a wave. He guided her backwards against the defense turret, crushing his body against hers. Her chest pressed against his with each hungry breath. She tilted her head back to rest on the turret’s domed top, exposing her bare neck and the ridge of her clavicle.

As he traced the contours of Atty’s throat with his mouth, Ffeldy reached around her to activate the turret. It came to life with a low rumble against her back.

“I can move _mountains_.”

The ground quaked under Ffeldy’s boots. He lost his balance and dropped to one knee. Fine sand dusted his shoulders now, but he barely noticed and pressed his face into the smooth marble bodice of her dress. The turret thundered louder and Ffeldy smacked it with the flat of his hand, sending it into overcharge mode.

“Feeling _HOT!_” Atalanta erupted in literal flames that singed Ffeldy’s eyebrows, though he didn’t much care in the moment.

The overcharged turret detonated a shockwave, sending them both flying. Ffeldy landed flat on his back, and Atalanta fell gasping on top of him. They lay there for a moment, noses touching, chests heaving as they fought to catch their breath.

“Well. That was,” said Ffeldy, blinking sand out of his eyes, “another fine example of engineering.”

Atalanta gave his cheek a playful smack. “I _thought_ you were going to help set up my tent.” She collapsed against his chest in a fit of laughter.

Ffeldy lay staring up at the dark Maguuma canopy, one arm draped tentatively across Atty’s back, and smiled. For the first time since arriving in the jungle, he didn’t feel quite so…hopeless.

_“Commander? Are you there? Come in Commander…”_ A high-pitched radio voice cut the silence, crackling with static.

Atalanta propped herself up on her elbows and put a hand to her ear. “Sorry, I should probably take this call.” She fumbled with an invisible earpiece. “Yes? What is it?”

_“Commander, my ears! There you are! Is there a battle? I'm getting an odd reading from the communicator. Your temperature appears to be fluctuating wildly. And I was getting weird audio feedback, with battle cries and an explosion—”_

Ffeldy started to laugh, but Atalanta clapped a hand over his mouth.

“I’m fine, Taimi. I just went to, uhh…survey our defenses. And had a little run in with one of those…” she spun her finger, trying to summon the words. “…scary frog things. But it’s fine. We’re fine. I’m fine.”

_“Oh? Hylek? Which tribe? I’m collecting their different poison variants for study and I’m still missing Xocotl, Zintl and Coztic, so if you could bring me whatever you can get your hands on—um, please wear gloves—then I would reeeeeaaally—"_

Ffeldy laughed so hard into Atalanta’s hand that tears slid down the sides of his face.

“_Oh, is someone there with you, Commander? Excelsior, Commander’s friend! Don’t let her leave without collecting the hylek poison, okay? She always forgets.”_

“I’ll do my best,” answered Ffeldy, his voice muffled behind Atalanta’s palm. She released him, grudgingly. “But she’s very headstrong. And honestly, her enthusiasm for science isn’t what it could be.”

_“Oh-ho, don’t I know it!”_ shrilled Taimi. _“I mean, she does a decent job faking interest, but after a long row of ‘uhuh’ responses when one is trying to helpfully explain the synergistic compatinization of malophenides—which, you’ll agree, EVERYone should want to know—well, one begins to wonder—”_

“That’s quite enough,” Atalanta shot back in her most Commander-esque voice. “If you’re going to talk about me like I’m not even here, then I’m just going to hand my communicator device over to Ffeldy, and he can be responsible for your toads, mushrooms and spores collecting nonsense.” She dug her elbows into Ffeldy’s chest and glared down at him. “Though you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Most likely, Commander.”

Atalanta shot him an _I’m going to kill you_ look. “I’ll be back to camp in a few minutes, Taimi. This tent won’t set up itself. But then we can hash out a plan for tomorrow. Sound good?”

“_Alrighty, Commander! See you in a few.”_

Atalanta clicked off her communicator, gave a frustrated groan, and lifted herself off Ffeldy. “Commander, fetch this. Commander, do this, and that, and the other thing. It’s like I have to be everything for everyone, all the time! And I must smile, and be gracious, even when I feel like punching the wall. I wish I could just go rescue Destiny’s Edge and deal with this egg ridiculousness without being roped into a thousand other inconsequential tasks.”

“That does sound frustrating.” Ffeldy stood and brushed dirt and leaves from his coat, wishing he could just rotate through attunements like Atty, whose dress looked immaculate after a single cycle through water and fire.

Hard reality started to weigh on him again. His back ached from the rough landing, for one. And getting…_this close_ to the Pact Commander—his boss, essentially—was not the smartest move. He already knew how things would be tomorrow. He and Atalanta would awkwardly avoid eye contact in camp, then go their separate ways on separate missions in the morning without admitting anything had happened between them. Ever.

She put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. He shuddered, still sensitive to her thirty-volt touch.

“Have you thought about just saying no?” he asked her. “The next person who demands that you clear out a giant spider nest in their root-cellar, tell them to go pound sand. They’ll find another solution. I think you worry too much about people not liking you. Don’t.”

“You heard Jasmina. She wants me to help her hunt for Faren tomorrow. They’re both my childhood friends. I feel terrible saying no, and yet…I think it’s a problem solved best without me. I have other more time-sensitive problems to attend to, you know?”

“Sure. I think you have a pretty good idea of where your priorities lie. Hopefully talking it out like this helps.”

“Yes. It has.” Atalanta planted one last scorching kiss on Ffeldy’s cheek. “I’m thinking maybe you should go instead.”

Ffeldy knew he should take his own advice and just say no. But this was Commander Atalanta Fiero. And he would do exactly as she wished, bitter regrets be damned.


	6. Scrapping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author’s Note: Every good training montage requires an epic training song, and the first one that came to my mind was “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from Mulan. So. This happened.]

_Let’s get down to business, ‘cause the dragon calls_

_If you can’t resist he’ll have you by the balls_

_I will beat you down and build you up again_

_And you can bet before we’re through_

_Engi, I’ll make a scrapper of you_

_Trapped in a rainforest that’s on fire within_

_You must learn to face-smash, or you’ll never win_

_Mordremoth don’t care ‘bout your technology_

_Wield a hammer, get a clue_

_Engi, I’ll make a scrapper of you_

_I’ll never let you catch your breath_

_Block! I’ll run this sword right through you_

_How underpowered can an engi get_

_Commander’s got a plan for you_

_I kind of doubt you’ll live to see it_

_Get off the floor, let’s try that move again_

_Attention span_

_You’re so distracted, are you still listening?_

_Has a plan_

_That he won’t follow ‘cause “improvising”_

_Your lifespan_

_Is just five seconds so melee harder_

_Watch out, you’ll make your sylvari trainer turn!_

_While you don’t realize it, it’s a point of pride_

_That I try to help you, though I’m acting snide_

_So assuage my worries that you’re suitable_

_Show me just what you can do_

_Why should I make a scrapper of you?_

_~ Tree carving near the Noble Ledges, hacked into bark with a large blade, anonymous_

* * *

“Rise and shine, engineer. We have a gentleman’s agreement. Not that you seem in a state to recall anything.”

When Ffeldy came to, he was being dragged along on his back. Canach—who else?—had pulled him out of a tent by the heels. Night-sounds still filled the jungle, though a sliver of orange light brightened the horizon. At least he could mostly see without night-vision.

“Ow—where’s my coat?”

“I’d have woken you sooner, if only you’d been easier to find. Funny, I never thought to check the Commander’s tent until I’d exhausted all other options. Let’s not wake her, shall we?” Canach dropped Ffeldy’s ankles and reached for something draped over a nearby branch. “Is this your coat? Because it appears to be soaked, sandy, covered in scorch-marks and—ah!—just shocked me. I can tell you’ve been…busy.”

He tossed the coat at Ffeldy, who sat up to pull it on. The material was damp, not soaked exactly, but felt cold and clammy against his bare skin. The sand was going to rub him raw. What a way to start the day.

“At least let me have my coffee first.”

“Ha, good one. You Pact engineers run on turret grease and gouts of flame. Hydrate yourself with water if you must, but coffee must be earned first.” Canach reached out a hand and helped pull Ffeldy to his feet.

“I don’t remember coffee factoring into our agreement.” Every muscle ached, every joint felt like a rusty hinge. This was going to suck.

Canach had of course brought along the massive wrench-club and now thrust it into Ffeldy’s hands. “I suppose you could go wake the overworked servants—”

Ffeldy winced. With his peasant background, class distinctions carried a certain awkwardness. “Point taken. Let’s do this.”

They strode together through the sleeping pre-dawn camp, weaving between tents while trying not to stumble on the guidelines and stakes. A few groggy servants crouched over unlit cooking fires with their tinderboxes. The perimeter guards on watch, Jasmina among them, nodded as Canach and Ffeldy passed by. The wrench dug into Ffeldy’s shoulder and he had to keep shifting to one side, then the other.

“You’ll get used to it.” Canach might have smiled. As usual, Ffeldy couldn’t tell. Then something else caught his eye.

“Look, over there. Think what I could build with that…”

A pile of scrap and machine parts lay beside the trail, and Ffeldy instinctively rerouted toward it, his brain clicking through a list of useful applications: turrets, flamethrowers, gyro upgrades…

A bird-sized luna moth fluttered across the path ahead, so close he could have reached out and touched it. Its wings glowed pale-green with phosphorescence. Ffeldy watched how it caught an air current and soared toward into the sky above the wrecked airship hulks. If only he might somehow follow… He thought back to his youth near Claypool, chasing butterflies through meadows and studying their aerodynamic properties while farmers yelled at him for trampling their crops. Priorities.

“No inventions this morning.” Canach grabbed Ffeldy by the coat-collar and stopped him from stumbling over the edge of a cliff he hadn’t even noticed. “We need to work on both your melee skills _and_ your situational awareness.”

“So are we planning to hike all the way back to Lion’s Arch, or what?”

“This is far enough. It’s a reasonably flat, open area that will make a good sparring ground. They won’t hear you shouting from camp. I’ll try my best to keep you away from the cliff.”

“That’s very considerate of you.” Ffeldy knew Canach was doing him a favor with this lesson, but couldn’t seem to summon words approaching anything like gratitude. He knew he’d get beaten to a pulp in any melee situation. He always did, unless he had some technological “crutch” of his own devising. Today would be no different.

Canach adjusted Ffeldy’s grip. “Here, lift your hammer into a protective stance. Hold it like this for an easy block.” He left his own weapon sheathed and demonstrated the position with a staff he’d cut from a branch.

“It’s not a hammer,” said Ffeldy, mirroring the stance. “It’s clearly a wrench. I suppose the Grove isn’t much for technology, but do sylvari even—”

Canach shook his head, and Ffeldy shut his mouth quickly.

“I’m going to teach you basic maneuvers traditionally associated with the war hammer. You are carrying a hammer. I’m going to refer to it from now on as, you guessed it, a hammer. I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to accuse me of overcomplicating matters. Is that all right with you, engineer?”

“Overcomplicate away.”

Canach demonstrated several basic hammer swings, a leap, and a two-handed whirl that nearly took out Ffeldy’s kneecaps. Then he ran the engineer through a series of maddening drills that felt more to Ffeldy like dance choreography than martial arts. Not that he excelled at either of those things.

He stumbled about the training area, the weight of the hammer constantly throwing off his balance, and swung ineffectively at “Mordrem” targets Canach had constructed from dead logs.

“All right. Let’s try a moving target now. Come on, I dare you,” Canach barked. “Hit me!”

Ffeldy was just thankful the sylvari hadn’t urged him to _smile!_ or _buck up!_ or _fix that negative attitude, young man!_ That was the kind of thing he could imagine Atalanta telling him, and which often just made him feel worse, and his feelings out of his control. If only he could figure out how to channel those emotions into some sort of dazzling, flesh-searing laser beam…

“So,” said Canach, getting his attention with a shove. “You and the Commander, hmm?”

“What?” Ffeldy’s face burned. “Uhh…that came out of nowhere.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

Ffeldy stumbled gracelessly over a rock. Oh-ho. So Canach wanted to get under his skin that way, did he? Well it was on now! Still, Ffeldy had a sinking feeling that he was never going to outmaneuver Canach in any duel, including a battle of wits.

“Well, not exactly…” Ffeldy tried out the whirling hammer maneuver, which Canach easily side-stepped. His lame attempt at a verbal parry likewise landed with all the elegance of a gluebomb.

“Let me guess. You offered to help set up her tent and one thing led to another.”

This time Ffeldy opted for a leaping strike, aiming at Canach’s head. “You might think that. Turns out she’s quite capable of setting up a tent herself.” Once again, he whiffed at air.

“I see. So she helped you along with your own tent.”

“What in the name of Grenth’s frozen bollocks are we even talking about?”

“I don’t understand why you sound so horrified. There’s a first time for everything, even camping.”

“I know all about ‘camping’, Canach.”

Ffeldy managed to parry Canach’s next attack and maintain an unsteady block. Then his grip slipped, and Canach’s stave collided with his fingers. Ffeldy hissed in pain but managed to keep hold of his weapon. He knew Canach was trying to spin him up, and it was working. He set up for another whirl, this time calculating where the sylvari would be in three seconds, not where he currently stood.

“You see,” he said, winding up for the swing, vaguely aware he should just shut up already, but he was too tired, aching, and miserable for that. “I knew her before. We met when I was a nobody, but she was the Hero of bloody Shaemoor.” This time the hammer glanced off Canach’s leg, sending the sylvari stumbling. Ffeldy followed through with another blow from the side. “And she believed in me. When few others did.”

To be honest, Ffeldy couldn’t understand why Atalanta had moved in to kiss him last night. _He_ was the one harboring the inconvenient celebrity crush for years, not her. Ever since the fall of Zhaitan, The Pact Commander’s star had been on the rise. She seemed involved in every big news event to hit Tyria. Forgetting Atalanta Fiero had not exactly been an option. But last night _she’d_ given _him_ an opening to make the first move. And yet, he’d still deferred to her. Maybe it was a pity thing on her part. It wouldn’t be the first time a girl felt sorry for him. But then it should have ended after a single kiss, and it hadn’t. At all.

Ffeldy was so focused on maintaining good form while sorting out his frayed emotions, he lost track of Canach. The sylvari moved in behind him, staff raised, and smacked him across the back. Ffeldy sprawled forward on his hands and knees. He tried to rise on the momentum of an ill-timed hammer swing and ended up flat on his back, Canach’s staff wedged under his chin.

“Situational awareness. Your footwork, too, is…hard to watch.”

“It’s been an invigorating lesson,” Ffeldy said through gritted teeth. “I’m feeling a lot more confident about this melee hammer thing, thanks. Stand me up and give me a good shove toward the next Mordrem you see. I promise to go out with my boots on, anyway.”

Getting dominated by Canach had given him a bit of a thrill, actually—going 1v1 against a talented opponent who didn’t hold (entirely) back, and lasting more than five seconds, had proved strangely euphoric. Not that he’d ever admit to _that_ in a million years. But imagine how thrilling it might be to actually _beat_ him.

“Umm…unless you’d care to duel again?”

“No, I think you’ve convinced me.” Canach withdrew the staff and tossed it aside. “You are definitely not cut out for this. Technological crutches may be your only hope.”

Ffeldy sat up with a groan. “I’m so glad we’re on the same page at last.” He reached for the hammer and placed it across his knees, contemplating whether adding some sort of electrical field to the stupid thing might give him the slightest edge. He still had an extra salvaged power-source and some wiring in his pocket, left over from the turret he’d built last night. Perhaps that might do the trick. Without his familiar pistol and shield he felt almost naked, but any weapon was better than no weapon. Especially a weapon with electrical upgrades.

“Pact Engineer Von Ffeldy.”

Ffeldy looked up, mid-tinker. Canach had never addressed him so…formally. “Sorry?”

“I’m not entirely sure you realize how dire your situation was yesterday.”

“Oh.” Ffeldy’s face burned hotter than an incendiary grenade. “Well, _my_ lips are sealed, and _she’ll_ certainly never mention it again, so that just leaves _you_—”

“I’m not talking about that. Ever again, you’ll be glad to hear. Do you remember our little Mordrem skirmish?”

“Vaguely.” Ffeldy rubbed his most painfully bruised and aching thigh. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been observing the Mordrem to figure out Mordremoth’s intentions. And those three we fought were coming for _you_. If we hadn’t found you first, if you’d have remained unconscious and tied down by vines, they’d have taken you deeper into the jungle. Made you a slave of the dragon.”

A droplet of cold sweat trickled down the inside of Ffeldy’s damp collar. He retained few memories from his three days in Mordremoth’s vine prison, mainly the musty compost-heap smell, but occasionally he still heard voices that rustled like leaves in the wind.

“But if I’m not sylvari—and I’m really not trying to sound insulting, I swear—Mordremoth can’t _turn_ me against my will, can he? And I’m not built of flora, so he has no power to change me physically, either.” He stumbled over the words. “Not like Captain Diarmid.” His empty stomach churned with acid. He felt ill.

“We’re not certain of the breadth of Mordremoth’s powers or motivations. He’s turning the weaker of my kind into Mordrem guards, then using them to gather bodies of all races, alive or dead, to him. You’d have ended up serving him somehow, with your body, your service, or your mind. Maybe all three.”

The thought was too disturbing to linger on, and Ffeldy had no desire to chase that path of logic to its natural conclusion. He ducked his head and knelt over his wrench—no, _hammer_—fussing with the jerry-rigged power converter until he coaxed a pale glow from the “on” indicator. The metal shaft flickered and buzzed as a golden current shimmered across its surface.

“What will you do if the dragon tries to claim you, engineer? Will you swing a few punches at the foliage with your bare hands before they drag you away? Maybe they’ll wait patiently for twenty minutes while you build another of your hovering gyro-bombs, whose unaccountable explosive properties I still fail to understand—”

“I made the one yesterday from salvaged parts, flares, and a single drop of elixir X,” said Ffeldy without looking up from his project. He patted his breast pocket. “I still have a thumb-sized vial that survived the crash, but a little bit goes a long way, it seems. It’ll have to. I definitely don’t want to know the shipping costs from my black-market asuran supplier to the Heart of Maguuma.”

“I see.” Canach’s typically dry voice sounded even more parched than usual. “Well I’m glad you trusted a _tree_ outside your tent to hold your coat last night, along with your priceless valuables. You are definitely more ‘champion genius’ than ‘champion idiot’, congratulations.”

“Trust knows no logic, or so I’ve been told…” Ffeldy’s voice wavered.

He glanced up at Canach who stood over him, one hand on the pommel of his sword. He drew the blade with a reverberating _shhhing!_

It crossed Ffeldy’s mind to just beg for mercy. He was already on his knees anyway.

“Oh, would you look at that. I just turned into one of Mordremoth’s minions. Here I am, come to drag you deeper into the Tangled Depths. What an inconvenience. How can you possibly resist me?”

He was clearly joking. Wasn’t he? But Canach wasn’t one to joke about such things…

Canach’s sword swung flashing in a downward arc. Ffeldy lifted the hammer with both hands and held it over his head in a block. Blade clanged against shaft, and Ffeldy’s forearms stung from the impact. If it had landed, that blow would have killed him.

“I thought we were done practicing—”

“We are. This isn’t practice, this is real. If you submit to me, then you submit to Mordremoth.” Canach brought the blade down again, his full weight behind the swing.

Ffeldy blocked again, sliding backwards on his knees from the force of the collision. Agony ricocheted along his bones, and he thought his arms might shatter.

“You’ve already admitted that you stand no chance, so just surrender now.” Canach’s blade traced a figure-eight in the air, then sliced crossways at the level of Ffeldy’s neck.

Ffeldy threw himself face-first onto the ground while the blade whirred past overhead. He rolled sideways, using the hammer’s inertia to propel himself to feet. Canach maintained pressure and came at him again, this time with a simple, effective sword thrust. Ffeldy saw it coming in his peripheral vision. As he spun around, he flipped a switch on his hammer’s newly installed power supply. His insulated leather gloves protected his palms from the angry buzz of electricity in the shaft. For a split-second he relived one of Atalanta’s staticky kisses in his mind, then shoved the distraction away. With a pained grimace, he swung the hammer over his head, intending to knock aside Canach’s incoming sword point.

“Here, Mordremoth. Have a taste of lightning.” Dwayna, let this untested weapon upgrade work.

The hammerhead fell towards the earth with a swoosh, missing the sword by inches. Time seemed to stretch mid-swing, forcing Ffeldy to watch how Canach flicked his wrist in maddening slow motion, sending the tip of his blade toward Ffeldy’s own nose. Now he contemplated, moments from certain death-by-skewering, the way the foreshortened blade tip became almost invisible from this unfortunate perspective. He could never fully control his odd thoughts and their terrible timing.

Another thought snuck in. That Canach _must_ have turned. Why else would the sylvari be legitimately trying to kill him?

The hammer struck the ground with a shower of sparks like a lightning bolt, and a web of electricity crackled outward from the impact point in a wide ring. Canach’s sword froze inches from Ffeldy’s face. Golden strands of electricity writhed along the blade like angry snakes.

Ffeldy blinked. A thread of electricity leapt from the blade to his panscopic monocle. His heads-up-display flickered momentarily, then shorted out. Meanwhile Canach stood, immobilized by the electric field. The brow-like ridges above his eyes were raised in a most human-like expression of shock that even Ffeldy could decipher it. It was…not a very Mordrem look, either.

“Sorry…” Ffeldy reached an apologetic hand toward the stunned sylvari, who winced as electricity continued to pulse up from the ground through his legs. Ffeldy’s own gloves and boots had protective insulating properties—a necessity for airship engineering work.

“Don’t apologize,” said Canach as the stun wore off, his annoyed tone softened by something like pride. But couldn’t have been that. “You just stopped me cold. Now follow through and bash my face in with everything you’ve got.”

Did Canach actually care so much to push him this far? Ffeldy was just some nobody engineer. It seemed unlikely.

“But—”

“Don’t even think about holding back. Don’t think, period.”

“Too late,” said Ffeldy with a grin, hefting the hammer over his shoulder. “Because I have an idea for a rocket-propulsion hammer charge, but I’m afraid that’s still in development at the moment.”

“Then do your second-rate best, engineer.” He sounded amused, nonetheless.

“Pure kinetic energy it is!” Ffeldy’s muscle memory, out of practice as it was, kicked into gear. He managed to more-or-less duplicate the whirling motion Canach had taught him earlier, though with sloppier footwork. Once again, lighting began to spark from the hammer as he spun. “Scratch that. I forgot to turn this thing off.”

“Ow. Ow!” Airborne lightning bolts struck Canach in the shoulder. “By the Pale Tree’s cotton knickers, it’s too early in the morning for this.”

“It’s on the lowest setting. But just imagine if I dialed up the voltage—"

“You know what? We’re done. Congratulations, engineer, Mordremoth didn’t enslave you before breakfast after all. I still doubt you’ll one-shot any dragon minions with that hammer of yours, but you just might annoy them to death. Let’s go see about that coffee of yours. Then I believe the Commander has a rescue mission lined up for you.”

“Lord Faren. I’m sure he’s practically rescued himself already.” Ffeldy hit the power switch and grounded the hammer, removing the extra charge with a worrying fountain of sparks. This thing was a deathtrap. Hopefully just for Mordrem. He’d have to make some adjustments to reduce collateral damage, however.

He took off his glove and held out his bare hand. “Hey Canach. Thanks.”

The sylvari eyed him dubiously, then shook it. A spark crackled as their fingers met. They both jumped.

“Good one,” said Canach. “Let’s just call that a fair trade, shall we?”


	7. Controlled Falling

In Maguuma, I’ve been losing sleep

With canopy too high, ravines too deep

I pray to Dwayna for so many things

I’m done with falling damage

Someone make me wings

Yeah, someone build me wings

I try to dodge

All those swinging vines

Get hit by mushrooms, darts and mines

Rainforests can be unkind

But I’ve never felt so maligned

Strong—but I’m not OP

Sword—is no machete

And I don’t think this map’s for me

I can’t stand the sight of trees

I—I—I—I want to soar like a kite

Over the trash mobs

I—I—I—I am a leaf on the wind

Glide straight to you, Mordy

I could fly, could fly, could fly

Everything that kills me makes me want to fly

~ folk revival song performed by Scout Acan, glider-watching connoisseur, with lyrics attributed to one of his (possibly human) contacts

* * *

The early morning sun filtered through the jungle canopy, giving the Ledges a bright, verdant look that matched Ffeldy’s new-found mood. Hammer slung across his back, he whistled as he made his way along the path to the upper camp.

“Rise and shine!” Ffeldy knelt in front of the Commander’s open tent flap, a mug of hot coffee in each hand. “I didn’t realize how beautiful the rainforest could be, but this lighting—” He stopped short. The tent was empty.

“Looking for the Commander?” growled a low voice behind him.

Ffeldy glanced over his shoulder. A charr with huge green eyes and a longbow over her shoulder huffed the air. Ffeldy’s ancestors had been refugees of the Searing of Ascalon, and his neck prickled whenever he encountered the large feline hunters—a centuries-old inherited instinct he struggled to shake. Charr and humans were allies now, of a sort. His brain knew it, even if his elevated heartrate did not.

“She didn’t…leave, did she?” Ffeldy pushed through his hesitation.

The charr’s ears swiveled and she gave the air another long sniff. “At least an hour ago. She had word of an Itzel scout with important intelligence regarding certain high-value prisoners. I don’t expect she’ll make another detour back here. It’s an urgent mission.”

“I understand.” Ffeldy stood, taking a long sip from one of the mugs to hide his disappointment. “Err…you want some coffee?”

“If it’s not Dolyak bullion I’m not putting a whisker near it. But thanks.”

Ffeldy heard a squeak and looked down. A juvenile devourer—all legs, claws and chitinous double-tail—scrabbled at his boots. He jumped back with a yelp, sloshing coffee over the front of his coat.

“Frostbite! Down!” snapped the charr, but the little devourer ignored Ffeldy now that it had a puddle of coffee to lap off the ground with its mouth-pinchers. “Sorry about that. He’s quite gentle. Who knew devourers craved caffeine?”

“It’s no problem. I managed to save one cup, and no one else was going to drink the other anyway.” Ffeldy’s glove wasn’t the most absorbent blotter for his soaked front, but he didn’t see any convenient towels lying around. “Are you two headed in the same direction as the Commander?”

“Frostbite and I will be scouting the area, then regrouping with her, yes. You’re a Pact soldier. You’ve got your orders, I assume.”

“There were other Pact airships that went down nearby. And Faren’s Flyer.” Ffeldy drained the remaining mug in a few quick gulps. Atalanta had her priorities straight. This mission came first. By Grenth, what was he still doing here, lazing around camp? On the edge of the ravine nearby, servants had erected a tent-like pagoda for these airship-wrecked nobles, who continued to live in style with their Ascalonian whiskey, tapioca pudding, and domestic service. They didn’t seem particularly eager to escape the jungle, and he could already feel their inertia slowing him down, too. His body was bruised and battered from the crash, from sparring with Canach, and just a few more hours of sleep in the empty tent wouldn’t make a difference…

“A rescue mission. The Commander’ll like that.”

Ffeldy’s face grew hot before he realized she wasn’t using Canach-levels of sarcasm.

“You’ve done some scouting in this area, right? Any idea where the Faren’s Flyer might have crashed?”

She turned. “Well, you could always read the signposts I guess.”

“Ha.”

“Just don’t trust compasses. Mordremoth’s presence overpowers them in the Heart of Maguuma. They only point towards the dragon. But you might try going _downhill_.”

“Good to know.”

“Walk softly, Ffeldy,” said the charr, and flicked a farewell with her tail. “Come on, Frostbite. No, get down. You’re the one with all the energy. I think you get to carry _me_ today.”

“May Dwana keep you.” Ffeldy bowed slightly, racking his brain for the charr’s name. He’d met her last night at the bonfire, but it hadn’t stuck. It was too late to ask now.

After the charr scout had gone, Ffeldy tried to maintain his momentum and started packing for his mission.

“I’d trade my little finger for a rune of holding right about now,” Ffeldy muttered to himself as he strained to connect the buckles of his overfull rucksack. He’d have to dump some supplies. Most of his salvage materials would have to go, but the jungle seemed to be full of that sort of thing—wreckage. He grimaced at the unwelcome dark thought.

Emptying the pack for the third time, he refilled it with only his tools, a recovered med kit, and an assortment of under-construction gyros. As he lifted one spherical gyro, the mechanism gave a bird-like peep and feebly spun its propeller. Ffeldy gave it a tap, then tucked it away in a pocket. He had worked on this one earlier, figuring he’d use it as a prototype. He intended to perfect the avionics and functionality of a single gyro, then apply the design to the others, tweaking their purposes slightly. The asuran gyro technology wasn’t new to him, exactly, thanks to the Pact’s integration of Tyrian races. He’d used a gyro “assistant” when he was chief engineer, to conduct basic maintenance inside Thunderbreaker’s inflated hull—just pop the valve and slide it through. However, he hadn’t thought to weaponize them until facing that Mordrem troll. He still had a scant elixir collection and wanted to pair them all with gyros eventually. Could be useful, and fun.

At last he managed to fasten his rucksack buckles. Shouldering his weapon and pack, Ffeldy made his way between the tents. He should probably get started on that rescue mission one of these days.

As he passed by one of the tents, a hand emerged from the open flap. It clasped his arm and yanked him off his feet. He found himself flat on his back inside the tent, pinioned by… _Atalanta_. She straddled him, both hands cupping his mouth. Her skin felt clammy and cold against his. Some earth-magic kept him immobile, as if she’d embedded his limbs in rock. Her dark eyes glistened, her hair frizzed from her usually neat braids, and Ffeldy could feel her quivering against him. He also had a disconcerting sense of déjà vu.

“Hush, it’s just me,” she hissed without releasing his mouth. “I know, I know. You thought I was long gone. Duty, mission, all that. Well, I was. I tried to meet that hylek scout in some ancient tree, which turned out to be _impossible_. I had to run up the walkway to that stupid tree, drew aggro from an entire tribe of nasty treefrogs, and nearly fell to my death in a bottomless ravine. Five times.” A hot tear slid down her chin and splashed Ffeldy’s cheek. “Can you imagine a more idiotic way for the Commander to die?”

Ffeldy could, actually, but wouldn’t have ever brought it up aloud. He’d never seen Atalanta so upset—or upset at all, come to think of it. She’d always had that unassailable veneer of confidence, even back in her Hero of Shaemoor days. Confidence that had always been as foreign to him as a Crystal Desert vista.

“I ran away, Von. I ran away like a child and snuck back into camp in mistform. Here I am, hiding in a tent and I don’t…know…what…to do. This Grenth-cursed jungle is going to kill me, and there’s so much gods-damn pressure. No one considers for a second that I might not actually know what I’m doing. Failure is not an option. But this isn’t Kryta, or the Silverwastes, or even Orr. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d rather be back in Orr.”

Atalanta released the earth-magic in Ffeldy’s limbs and swabbed away her tears.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said when she moved her hands.

“But I do. You don’t understand. I have to act as a lone wolf to be worthy of my Commander rank. It’s disingenuous otherwise.

“Is it? You’re the Commander. You command. Take a full party and attack the tree.”

“Von!” she hissed. “I’m supposed to infiltrate the Coztik with stealth! I’m not going to kill an entire tribe for one little piece of information from Scout Ubek who, by the way, is far too valuable as a double agent to risk in a full-on assault.”

Ffeldy sat up slowly, an awkward business with Atalanta still straddling his hips, though she didn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry Maguuma is giving you a terrible time. No one likes to fail. Trust me, I know all about failure.” Apparently, failure was as rare to her as success was to him. He wrapped her in a hug. “But I’m here for you.”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” She spoke with her forehead pressed to his neck. “Because I’ve been shot. I…I forgot to mention it before.”

He noticed now how a cold mist wafted off her skin.

“You WHAT?” His heart thrummed against his ribs like a motor. “Where? How many times? How long ago?” Now his emergency medic instincts took charge. He lay her back on the plush tent floor and upended his rucksack in search of his medical supplies.

“Twice in my leg and once in my side.” She winced when he ran a hand over her bodice. “They were poison darts. Not long ago. I slunk straight home, didn’t I? Used all my water-healing to stay on my feet. Please keep your voice down, Von. Oh gods, imagine if anyone sees me…”

“Stop worrying about that,” Ffeldy snapped. “I’ll need access to the wound site. I can use these scissors to cut away your tunic—”

Atalanta sat up and put a firm hand on his arm. “Von. No. You will not cut my top. I only have the one and it’s _ascended_.”

“But I can’t—”

Before he even finished his sentence, she swooped her shirt over her head and clutched it to her chest. Old battle scars marred her dark skin. It made sense, but the sight caught him off-guard. She always seemed so tough, he'd assumed she couldn't be harmed. But she was human, too.

“You can, Pact Engineer. I’m starting to hallucinate little plant-dragons. They’re buzzing around the tent like flies. So if I hit you, I swear it was an accident.”

“Whatever you say, Commander.” Ffeldy refocused his eyes on the perforation in her side. It was a small hole, probably made by a dart, and it oozed with a green jelly-like substance. He held up a syringe pre-loaded with a cleansing solution that should neutralize the poison, assuming this particular med kit hadn’t been compromised in the crash. Atalanta’s increasingly erratic and paranoid behavior might be poison-related, too. Maybe.

“I hate needles.” Atalanta fell back on the cushions and pulled part of her shirt up over her eyes. “So don’t tell me when you’re about to—”

Ffeldy didn’t even hesitate.

“AH!” Lightning crackled over her body.

The green ooze in her side-wound fizzed on contact with the cleansing agent. It was working.

Ffeldy didn’t duck fast enough when she swatted him with one electrified palm. “Hey, easy there. Do you want me to fetch my fumigator gun? That’ll neutralize the poison too—with noxious gas, ironically enough. You’ll smell like sulfur for a week.”

“Very funny. Ha. Ha. Sorry, there was a dragon on your face.”

“I’m serious. You said you were shot in the leg, too?”

“Twice.” Atalanta thrust one leg dramatically over his lap. “Gah. Fine. Do your worst.”

A pair of wounds reminiscent of a large snakebite marred her thigh, just below her skirt. Ffeldy ran a hand up the inside of her leg, moving the fabric aside, and felt her relax into him. But when he raised the syringe, she jerked away, almost kneeing him in the nose.

“You’re in league with Mordremoth, you dragon-faced, poison-needle-wielding hylek-fiend…” She pummeled his chest with her fists, but her strength was fading and her eyes had taken on a greenish tinge. When he reached for her injured thigh, she scorched his hand with a flame-blast and tucked her arms protectively around her drawn-up knee.

“You need to relax.” Ffeldy trailed his fingers down her uninjured leg, then up again. All the way up. “Let me help you.”

“Oh. Gods, Von.” Atalanta’s voice lost its hysterical edge, and she loosened her defensive grip. “I want to trust that you know what you’re doing, really—”

Ffeldy leaned over and kissed her, feeling guilty for this semi-deception. But he couldn’t see any other way besides force. She kissed him back with cold, dry lips and gradually unclenched her injured leg. He waited for her to close her eyes, then gave her thigh two necessary jabs of his needle in quick succession.

“OW! OW! May the Void take you!” Atalanta planted her palms on his chest and shoved him away. Fire erupted from her hands, but this time Ffeldy was ready with a cooling elixir atomizer. The flames died with a hiss.

“If the rest of the jungle didn’t know you were here, they do now.” Ffeldy fought to keep his professional composure. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m done with the needles. I can see the poison fading. Just lie back and relax while I bandage you up.”

“This is just what I deserve for kidnapping _you_, of all people.” A warm glow slowly returned to Atalanta’s body as the poison deactivated in her veins. She lay staring up at the tent ceiling with an odd grin on her face, stroking Ffeldy’s knee while he painstakingly secured a bandage to her abdomen. “I know how to pick ‘em.”

A pleasant giddiness overwhelmed Ffeldy, and he figured he was grinning like a skritt with a glitterbomb. “I did my medic training at the Crown Pavilion, during the Queen’s Gauntlet. From concussions to bone breaks to poisonings, I can treat it.”

“That’s not what I meant, exactly,” murmured Atalanta, holding her leg at a convenient angle for Ffeldy to wrap the wound site. “But it’s certainly a bonus.” She pulled on her shirt, arranging the tight fabric to hide her upper bandage.

The cogs in Ffeldy’s head always spun at inconvenient times, making intuitive leaps across random inputs. Atalanta had barely saved herself from several treacherous falls. Thunderbreaker’s wing-shaped fin had slowed his own fall, had almost allowed him to control it. He remembered the luna moth catching an air current into the sky. Think how much easier Maguuma would be to navigate _that_ way.

“I know. I can make you fly,” he blurted out loud before he realized it.

Atalanta’s eyes widened. She raised her hand to Ffeldy’s cheek, then pulled him close by the lapels. “That’s a strong come-on from _you_,” she said, her dark eyes inches from his and her voice registering disbelief. “But this is hardly the time.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Ffeldy dropped his eyes in embarrassment. “I mean, I’ll build you literal wings. Imagine gliding across the ravines like a luna moth. Stepping from tree to tree in barely a blink. You could drop down on that Coztik tree-house from above, then fly away before they have a chance to reload their darts. What do you think?”

Atalanta’s expression cycled through prim dismissal, confusion, incredulity, and finally landed on dawning realization. “You’re still that Claypool butterfly collector lad, I see.” She laughed. “It’s your lucky day. I’m both intrigued _and_ out of alternatives.” She sat up facing him and crossed her legs, taking care to keep the injured one on top. “But can you sneak me out of camp without anyone noticing? I…think I’m still too weak to conjure mistform for more than two seconds.”

Of course the Commander had neither interest nor time for a rest. Ffeldy considered urging her to put her feet up for an hour, but he could tell from the set of her jaw that she would brook no argument. Instead, he produced the little gyro from his pocket and flicked it with his finger until its miniature propeller kicked in and it hovered in the air between them.

“Well,” he said dubiously, “I have this. And I can spare a drop of Elixir S. If my calculations are correct, a little stealth can go a long way. Stay close to me if you want to stay hidden. Although,” he added after a pause, “I really don’t think you should be embarrassed about giving up, just this once. You’re allowed to have flaws. People fail. But not letting that faze you makes you resilient, too. Others will respect that.”

Atalanta shook her head. She drew back, intent on fixing her braids. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Come on, let’s not waste another second in this claustrophobic tent.”

* * *

“I can’t watch.” Atalanta shielded her eyes as Ffeldy ventured out onto the precarious wreckage. He could glimpse the gaily colored noble tents in the valley far below. “Please don’t take stupid risks. I’ve taken enough for the both of us already.”

They had climbed to the highest point above the camp, a rocky spire that impaled the charred, skeletal remains of _Thunderbreaker_. The lethal curl of one massive Mordrem vine still clutched her by her metal ribs. Warped struts creaked under Ffeldy’s weight; the structure groaned but held fast. He knelt and pressed a palm against one of _Thunderbreaker_’s steel bones, stroking it like the head of some dying, loyal pet. Then he removed a wrench from his belt and began to loosen the bolts connecting thin, flexible struts to a sturdier plated walkway.

“I’d never really appreciated the scope of the fleet destruction until now,” said Atlanta from above. She’d climbed to the tip of the rock spire, avoiding the unstable wreckage, to scour the horizon for clues. “The phrase ‘entire fleet destroyed by Mordremoth’ is too broadly theoretical to wrap my head around. But give me a panoramic view…” Her voice trailed off on a quaver of emotion. She gestured at the sky. “Some of the wrecks are lodged in the canopy above our heads, utterly out of our reach.”

“Not necessarily.” Ffeldy fought with a bolt that had rusted tight, putting all his weight against the lever of his wrench. “Not if you think like an engineer.”

“I suppose I’m still waiting for you to show me the physical proof of your ‘crackpot’ idea. Let me know if you need my help.”

“I hate to ask the Pact Commander for help—”

“Don’t give me special treatment, Von. I’m up for anything. And I owe you, big time. So long as you aren’t asking me to kill the spiders in your wine cellar. Or venture out onto that deathtrap you’re standing on. Or, you know, get shot at again by poison darts.”

“Fair enough.” Ffeldy gathered an armful of detached metal struts and retreated from the precarious wreckage to solid rock. “I’ll start assembling the frame. Can you cut me some large squares of canvas hull and bring them over? There should be plenty within reach of solid ground. Your wing will need a sail.”

“I’m on it.” Atalanta unsheathed a dagger.

“Thanks. I’m sorry for making you wait. Your mission seems particularly time-sensitive.”

“It is and it isn’t,” said Atalanta as she slashed her blade through a mass of crumpled canvas. “It’s been four days now since the crash. Baroness Jasmina said she’s searched the adjacent areas, and the terrain is preventing her from venturing further afield in search of survivors. I have no choice but to go deeper into the jungle myself. But with the terrain, progress is maddeningly slow. At this rate it will take survivors months just to leave the jungle, and even longer to search the gods-damned thing. If you can find a way to help make my expedition more efficient, waiting even a few days would be worth the time I can save later.”

“Well, it won’t take that long.” Ffeldy stood back to survey his work: a steel skeletal frame with a central spine-like keel, ribs that radiated outward, and a control frame for steering. He’d built model gliders before and assumed the design would still work on a larger scale. Now his wing just needed a sail.

Atalanta brought him an armload of Thunderbreaker’s canvas hull that had survived he flames, and together they stretched it tightly across the frame.”

“Do I get a lesson first?” Atalanta asked as she fitted the finished glider to her back. She looked particularly…_commanding_ in her new wings. “Have you done this before?” She gave an experimental hop down the rocky slope. The wind caught the wing and she rose into the air for a few steps, then landed with a jolt.

Ffeldy grinned, satisfied with the results so far. “Lesson? Well, your glider is an airfoil that generates lift when air flows over its surface, and performance can be explained by the lift-to-drag ratio—”

“I’m sorry I asked.” Atalanta shook her head with a laugh. “I’m sure I can figure it out by doing it. Just tell me how I steer. Is there a lever somewhere?”

“No, you’ll have to shift your center of mass.”

“Whatever that means!” she said brightly. “I think I’ll take a running leap right off the point of this mountain.”

Ffeldy was glad to see her confidence had returned with a vengeance. “Let me tighten your straps first.”

She stood toe-to-toe with him in her outstretched wings while he reset her shoulder buckles—actually it was the harness he’d cut off his rucksack. Her eyes darted toward him each time his fingertips brushed her skin.

“Would you care to give me another kiss?” she whispered. “For luck.”

Ffeldy remembered how she’d initiated the first kiss last night. “I still don’t understand. Why me, exactly?”

Atalanta shrugged, and her wings appeared to flap. “I guess I’m just a sentimental girl who melts at terrible love songs written in my honor.”

Ffeldy froze with one finger looped around her chest-strap, testing its snugness. “But I ripped that idiotic thing to pieces. Threw it away.”

“Be careful what you toss into the wind. Especially when there’s an elementalist nearby.” She detached his hand and gave him a quick peck on the cheek that buzzed faintly with electricity long after she’d soared away on a warm Maguuma air current.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author’s note: Today’s epigraph is brought to you by the song “Counting Stars” by One Republic. It took me ages to figure out what I was going to do for it—all songs require a punchline, apparently this is The Law—but things fell into place eventually, as they often do. I appreciate your tolerance for my ridiculousness thus far. Here's a shout-out to the readers so far, and a hearty "huzzah" to those who have taken the time to leave kudos. I'd probably be chucking my digital words out into the internet void regardless, but it's exponentially more motivating with an audience. So, thanks.]


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